


Talking Without Speaking

by natsinator



Series: A Wheel Inside a Wheel [2]
Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Animal Death, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Canon-Typical subject matter, Child Abuse, Imperial!Yang, Love Triangles, M/M, Pre-Canon, Roleswap, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 62,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27020431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natsinator/pseuds/natsinator
Summary: When Oskar von Reuenthal enrolls at the Imperial Officers' Academy, he doesn’t expect to make real friends. The IOA is a competitive place, and Reuenthal has never been well liked. But when a foreign student shows up to challenge him for the top spot in the class, Reuenthal can’t look away.——————“Why do you have such an interest in me? You’ve been staring at me since the day we arrived," Leigh said.“So has everybody else.”“You know what I mean.”Reuenthal was afraid that he did. Or, not afraid precisely, but surprised to acknowledge that his thoughts about Leigh stretched back, in some form, to before, even, than the brief moment they had spoken in the hallway outside the practicum where they had faced each other. Reuenthal had seen Leigh at the convocation dinner, seen his head tilted back to the ceiling, seen his throat bared— vulnerable— and thought, “So, this is the number two.”“Isn’t it only natural for me to have an interest in my direct competition?”——————This is part one (ish?) of a very involved roleswap AU. You can read either this work, Speaking in Tongues, or Life out of Balance first.Some elements of canon are respected. Some are not.
Relationships: Oskar von Reuenthal & Yang Wenli, Wolfgang Mittermeyer/Oskar von Reuenthal
Series: A Wheel Inside a Wheel [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650067
Comments: 13
Kudos: 16





	1. “The Trick Is Not Minding That It Hurts.”

**Author's Note:**

  * For [softboypassing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softboypassing/gifts).



> Happy birthday Em @softboypassing! You put this worm in my brain. Hope you enjoy lol
> 
> [granted, if you still wanted to write your own take on this, maybe DON’T read this, and we can trade haha. is this work even canon to my own AU? who knows. who cares. :p ]

_ February 475 I.C., Odin _

The envelope in Reuenthal’s pocket felt like it was on fire. He had been checking the mail on a daily basis, sometimes several times a day, waiting for this letter. Now, he had it in hand.

Unfortunately, he had promised Count Mariendorf that he would not open the letter until he came to have dinner with him and his family. Reuenthal was mildly annoyed at the implications of that request (the idea that he might need to be consoled if the contents of the letter were unpleasant) but he gritted his teeth and bore it as he “borrowed” his father’s car to drive to the Mariendorf estate. If his father woke up before Reuenthal returned, there would certainly be hell to pay, but Reuenthal considered that a worthwhile trade to make. He had no money for a taxi, little desire to hitchhike the twenty miles in the snow, and even less interest in begging the Mariendorfs to send one of their servants to pick him up. 

He drove quickly, almost recklessly, though he liked to think of himself as a precise driver, one who didn’t make mistakes, even if he only had gotten his license recently. That was another thing that had grated him to rely on the Mariendorfs for, but it had been worth it.

Reuenthal knew that he should be grateful to have allies. Friends. In a sense, he was. But he disliked the need for them all the same.

The headlights cut through the dark winter air as he drove, snowflakes beginning to fall and land wetly on the windshield, reducing visibility to almost nothing. He didn’t slow down. 

The Mariendorf estate came into view, a shining beacon against the snow, and Reuenthal pulled the car up into the looping driveway. He got out, braced himself against the cold, pulled his black jacket up around his chin, and rang the doorbell. It took just a moment before their butler opened the door to let him in, and only half a second after that for the youngest Mariendorf, the five year old Hildegarde, to barrel into his legs.

“Good evening, Fraulein,” Reuenthal said.

“Hi, Oskar,” she said. Even as Reuenthal moved further into the hallway to take off his coat, she didn’t let go of his legs, so he ended up dragging her around. They made a funny,mismatched pair.

Hilde was small and chubby-cheeked, with a shock of dirty-blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She barely came up to tall Reuenthal's waist. He, on the other hand, had dark brown hair, always neatly combed to the side, and a narrow, mean face. People often told Reuenthal that his eyes were disconcerting: one was blue, while the other was so brown it was almost black.

Hilde was a sweet kid, but Reuenthal had very little interest in children. He could tell that it was her mother who had dressed her today, because she was wearing a dress. Usually, if one of the family's servants dressed her, they deferred to her father and allowed her to wear pants, which she preferred.

Like every observation he made about people, this fact lived in his mind and transmuted itself into a list of rules about how the world operated, and instructions for himself on how to best move within those rules. Although it was Countess Amelie who had known Reuenthal’s mother, and thus considered herself Reuenthal’s protector, it was Count Franz who was more generous, and safer, in some ways. He would look to the countess for the way he ought to behave, but it was the count who might rescue him should he fail. 

Of course, Reuenthal was not going to fail.

Hilde didn’t let go of his leg, laughing even as he stomped with her attached towards the drawing room. The count was there, frowning slightly as he thumbed through a sheaf of papers. Even from across the room, Reuenthal could see the letterhead— it was something the count had brought home from his office in Neue Sanssouci. He looked up when he heard Hilde’s peals of laughter.

“Oskar,” the count said, standing with a smile, clearly relieved to have an excuse to divest himself of his troublesome papers, at least for now. “I’m so glad you could make it. I wasn’t sure if you were going to brave the weather.”

“The drive wasn’t that bad, sir,” Reuenthal said.

“Are you doing well?”

“Yes, sir,” Reuenthal said. “How have you been?”

“Oh, fine, fine,” Mariendorf said. “Hilde, how about you let go of Oskar before you manage to pull his pants down and embarrass the both of you.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Hilde let go of Reuenthal’s leg and made her way over to her father, who scooped her up in his arms, where she clung onto him like a limpet. “Amelie should be down for dinner in a minute. I believe she was getting changed.”

Reuenthal nodded.

“I assume you got in,” Mariendorf said, smiling at Reuenthal as he walked past, heading towards the dining room.

“You told me not to open the letter, sir.”

Mariendorf laughed. “I fully expected you not to listen to me.”

“Oh?” Reuenthal asked, unable to keep some of the sardonic tone out of his voice.

“If I were you, I would have ripped the letter open immediately, promises be damned.”

“I would not be so incautious, sir,” Reuenthal said. “Your respect means a great deal to me, and I would not like to break my promises.” Really, what Reuenthal should have done was carefully melted the glue holding the envelope together with the iron on its lowest setting, and pulled the whole thing apart, but that would have involved much more danger than just the Mariendorfs’ broken trust. Getting the iron out from the closet would have risked waking his father, which might have meant that he didn’t make it to the Mariendorfs’ house at all.

Mariendorf’s smile was genuine, even if Reuenthal’s voice had been strained. “I’m sure you got in.”

“I hope so.”

“What are you getting?” Hilde asked.

Mariendorf ruffled his daughter’s hair with a free hand. “Our friend Oskar is going to go to school to learn how to be a famous admiral.”

She narrowed her eyes at Reuenthal. “On a ship?”

“The school is on Odin,” Reuenthal said. “But yes, eventually, I would go into space. If I get in.”

“You will. You did," the count said, correcting himself, since the contents of the letter were fixed already.

“And if I didn’t, I would simply enlist,” Reuenthal said.

This made Mariendorf frown. “Oskar, I’m not going to say you shouldn’t— you’re your own man— but the universe is a lot easier place to be if you finish your secondary schooling before you join the fleet. There’s a reason compulsory service isn't until twenty.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Reuenthal said.

It was at this point that footsteps sounded on the huge wooden staircase, and Countess Amelie Mariendorf swooped into view. She was a vivacious woman, several years younger than the count, and she had a gleam in her eye when she looked at Reuenthal. 

“My lady,” Reuenthal said, giving her a slight bow. She laughed.

“Charming as ever, Oskar. I hear you got into the IOA?”

“I haven’t opened the envelope.”

She clucked her tongue. “And yet I opened a bottle of wine to celebrate. Well. I’m sure we’ll be celebrating anyway.”

The group made their way at last into the dining room, where the servants had already put dinner on the table. They all sat, and the countess lit a blessing candle in the center of the table, then poured the wine. 

It seemed that, now that they were seated and eating, the tense subject of the envelope in Reuenthal’s pocket was disallowed, as it might spoil the mood of the meal. Instead, the countess jauntily discussed various goings-on in her day, including the latest trends at the finishing school where she “worked” teaching music to the youngest cohort of students. The count had more interesting things to say, describing the trouble in the colonies that his office was attempting to deal with. Nobility with only outlying holdings and with nothing tying them to the capital often got ideas, which it was then the work of minor diplomats like Mariendorf to smooth the rough edges off of. 

It amused Reuenthal that the young Hilde asked questions of both her parents, as though the subjects discussed were of equal importance. The mother and father both answered clearly, and in great detail, but for very different reasons.

In Reuenthal’s eyes, there seemed to be a slight battle being waged over the soul of this child, and he had to wonder how it would have been played out had the child not been both so bright, and so unfortunately female. Perhaps if Hildegard had been a Harold, it would have been the mother who was lenient, and the father who was strict. But perhaps not.

He wasn’t so invested in the outcome of the battle. He liked the child well enough, but they had little in common aside from association. Besides the misfortune of her sex, the circumstances of their lives were different enough to bring bitterness to the surface of Reuenthal’s heart. He wasn’t stupid enough to refuse to acknowledge it, so he sat with the feeling. If there had been a war waged for his own soul, it was one he was conducting on his own. It was perhaps that bitterness, more than anything else, that made him dislike the pity that the Mariendorfs were generous enough to give him.

Reuenthal answered the anodyne questions asked of him: if he had improved his lap time on the swim team, what he was learning in math class, what he thought of a book that the count had loaned him. The conversation never strayed more personal than that, because they had a mutual understanding of which lines should not be crossed.

It was after the meal had been finished, dessert brought out, and a second glass of wine poured for the three adults, that the count finally asked about the envelope.

“So, Oskar, may we see your acceptance letter?”

“Let me see,” Hilde demanded, though Reuenthal wasn’t sure that she understood what the adults wanted to look at. Reuenthal pulled the envelope out of his pocket and handed it to her.

“Can she read?” he asked.

“Sight words, mostly. But she can sound things out,” the countess said. “Go ahead and open it, Hilde.”

Hilde’s little fingers clumsily picked at the envelope’s seal, and Reuenthal wanted to take it back, but then her father helped her slice it open with a butter knife, and she pulled the letter out.

“Im-per-i-al…” she began, sounding out, starting at the top of the letterhead. Her father leaned over next to her and scanned the letter even as Hilde’s unsure voice reached Reuenthal’s name. “Oskar! That’s you!” she said.

“The suspense is killing me,” the countess said.

“Yes,” the count said, “See, there, Hilde, what number is that?”

“One,” she said, clearly annoyed at such a simple question.

“That slash, you would read that as ‘out of’. So, what’s that bigger number?”

She frowned at it. “One, five, zero, zero.”

“Congratulations, Oskar!” the countess said. She raised her glass. “And to think there was any talk about you not getting in.”

The count extracted the letter from Hilde’s hands, causing her to grumble a bit, though she then became distracted by the cake on her plate, and the count handed the letter back to Reuenthal. He glanced at it, confirmed what had been written, and then slipped the letter back into his pocket. His heart was beating unexpectedly quickly.

“If you’ll forgive me for saying so,” the count said, “I’m glad that we have some assurance that you won’t do anything rash.”

Reuenthal’s expression was tight, though he tried to smile. “I always consider my options very carefully.”

“Hm, I suppose so.”

After they finished their dessert, the count went to take Hilde up to bed, which left Reuenthal and the countess alone. “How have you been, Oskar?” she asked, stressing the question to indicate that she wanted a genuine answer.

“Fine,” Reuenthal said. “Nothing has changed, except for this.” He fingered the envelope in his pocket.

“Does your father know you took the entrance exam?”

“No,” Reuenthal said. “I told him I had a meet that day.”

“Are you going to tell him that you got in?”

“I was going to wait until the end of summer. He’ll be glad to be rid of me.”

The countess pursed her lips. He knew that her instinct would be to say something to the contrary, but claiming that Reuenthal’s father cared for him would be a stretch that strained even the countess’s generous imagination. “It’s nice that you have a career made for you already.”

Reuenthal nodded, looking at the candle in the center of the table, now almost burned down to nothing. The bright light of it left a black spot in his vision, and when he looked away from the candle at the countess, he moved that black spot over her face.

“How many people take that entrance exam?” she asked, when he said nothing.

“Hundreds of thousands,” Reuenthal said, though that was a random guess. Still, considering that the Imperial Officers’ Academy was the most contested placement for those seeking to become officers in the imperial fleet, and there were many billions of people living in the Empire, that was a reasonable number.

“And you came out first…” the countess said. “It’s a testament to a lot of things about you, Oskar.”

“Someone had to be first,” Reuenthal said.

The countess couldn’t resist saying something infuriating. “Well, your mother would be proud.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Reuenthal said, his voice bone dry. 

She sighed a little. “You’ll just have to trust me on that, then.”

“Of course, my lady.”

“Will you be doing anything this weekend? I’m leading a little expedition for my schoolgirls to see  _ Das Rheingold  _ on Saturday evening, and I would love to have your accompaniment.”

“I’m afraid I have a swim meet,” Reuenthal lied. He did have a meet that Saturday, but it was in the afternoon. He almost regretted the lie, because it wasn’t as though he had anything better to do on Saturday night, but the idea of being a charitable tagalong on the countess’s school field trip, and the idea that she would attempt to set him up with one of her students, sounded terrible. He didn’t mind Wagner, but it wasn’t worth it.

“Ah.” She was disappointed, but that wasn’t his fault. “Good luck, then,” she said with a smile. “Who are you competing against?”

“Mandel High.”

“They any good?”

“I don’t know,” Reuenthal said. “I’m sure I’ll find out.” He didn’t actually care. The pleasure of swimming was that it was an individual sport, and the aggregate scores of himself and his teammates didn’t concern him at all.

“Swim well, then,” she said.

“I will.”

The candle on the table was sputtering its last, and so Reuenthal casually reached over and pinched it out. “Oskar!” the countess said, alarmed. “Blowing it out would be just as effective.”

“Sorry,” he said.

“You’ll burn your fingertips right off,” she said, shaking her head. 

Reuenthal looked at his fingers. Aside from a little bit of soot, which he delicately wiped off on his napkin, they were fine, as they usually were. The discussion of Reuenthal’s dangerous habits was put on hold when Count Mariendorf returned to the dining room, which caused Reuenthal and the countess to both stand. 

“Hilde remains unconvinced that you aren’t about to go to school on a different planet,” the count said. “When you start attending the IOA, you’ll have to take us on a bit of a campus tour to prove her wrong.”

“Of course, sir,” Reuenthal said. “Though I’m sure it won’t be nearly as exciting as whatever she’s imagining.”

The count laughed. “She’s surprisingly more interested in the real than the imagined, so I’m sure she’d enjoy it anyway. I suppose I won’t be able to convince you to stay a little longer.”

“No, sir,” Reuenthal said. “I should be getting back before the weather gets any worse.”

“I think the snow has stopped,” the countess said, walking over to one of the windows and looking out past the heavy drapes. “Still, they say things are as changeable as the weather for a reason.”

Mariendorf smiled. “I’m glad you were able to make it over for dinner tonight. You should come more often.”

“Yes, sir,” Reuenthal said, though they both knew that he wouldn’t.

“Congratulations again on your IOA placement. It really is an impressive accomplishment.”

“Thank you, sir, and thank you for dinner.”

“Of course. Any time.”

“You call us if you need anything,” the countess said. “I mean it.”

Reuenthal nodded. “I hope you enjoy  _ Das Rheingold. _ ”

She waved her hand, but was smiling. “Oh, I’ve seen it a hundred times.”

* * *

Reuenthal took the long way back to his father’s house, avoiding the highway and driving on the backroads the entire route. He drove slowly, though not out of caution for the slick, snowy roads. He just wanted to prolong the trip. He didn’t listen to music, just stared into the dark, tree-lined path in front of him, the hi-beams of his headlights catching the eerie eyes of deer on the side of the road. He imagined one might dash in front of the car, throw itself under the wheels, but none did, and he drove past them and they vanished into the darkness.

The house was quiet when he got back, but the light in the library was on, which meant that his father was awake, which was a bad sign. It was about ten at night. Reuenthal probably should have stayed out longer, but he had had nowhere to go after leaving the Mariendorf house, and he wasn’t going to linger there. 

Reuenthal opened the door as quietly as possible, then took off his shoes at the door, picking them up so that he could walk barefoot and silent through the house, free hand steadying him along the wall in the darkness as he climbed the stairs.

His room was as much of a refuge as he could get, though he was careful to stay as quiet as possible, even as he changed out of his formal clothes and into his nightshirt. He had his furniture positioned such that, when he turned his desk lamp on, as little light as possible would shine out underneath the door. 

He had homework to do, and even though at this point it was certain that he was not going to graduate from his high school, as he would be attending the IOA starting at the beginning of the next year, he had no reason not to do his homework. Even if he had things he would prefer to be doing, homework was the most innocuous thing his father could catch him at, so everything else would wait until his father went back to sleep. 

He almost started to feel like he had gotten away with taking the car for the evening. His father didn’t come barging in while he was doing his chemistry paper, and he had moved on to history when he heard the telltale creaking of the stairs. He held his breath as his father’s heavy footsteps passed by his door, and rubbed his eyes with relief when he heard the bathroom pipes rattle as his father began his night routine.

Reuenthal was bent over his history textbook when the familiar, safe pattern of the night suddenly changed. Instead of leaving the bathroom and heading towards the master bedroom, his father returned downstairs. Deviation from the routine was always bad. Reuenthal stared at the textbook in front of him, not really processing anything being told to him about the Earth-Sirius war, and listened, his ears sharp for any muffled noises from downstairs. The kitchen sink was running. Then footsteps. He couldn’t tell what was happening, but it went on for a while. At one point, he thought he heard the front door open.

The footsteps came back up the stairs again, then past Reuenthal’s door. He relaxed.

Then his father turned and walked back towards his door, and Reuenthal tensed as the knob shook.

The lock on the door had been broken long before, and now the whole handle spun around in its socket uselessly. It was impossible to lock the door, but getting it open while not being intimately familiar with how to do it silently gave Reuenthal a few seconds of warning, at least. The one incriminating thing he had out— his acceptance letter from the IOA— he slipped into his desk drawer before the door finally slammed open.

Reuenthal did not look at his father, but he could tell from the cadence of his speech that he was not drunk. This was more dangerous than if he was.

“Where were you tonight?”

“Out, sir.”

“That’s not an answer. Where did you go?”

His father was still standing in the doorway, and hadn’t yet come into the room itself. Reuenthal didn’t know if he would be able to stop him from crossing that threshold, but it was that crossing that was dangerous.

“I was having dinner at a friend’s house, sir.”

“Too good to eat here, hunh?”

“No, sir.”

“Which friend?”

“Friedric Beaulieu.”

“And Beaulieu lives thirty five kilometers away, does he?”

Reuenthal knew he had been caught, not in the car, which was a foregone conclusion, but in the lie. He didn’t want to dig himself in further, so he stayed silent.

“I know how to read the odometer on my own car. I know you think you can take it for joyrides whenever you please. But it is not your property. And you would do well to learn what is and isn’t yours around here.”

“Yes, sir,” Reuenthal said.

“You will look at me when I am speaking to you,” his father said.

Reuenthal knew that he should turn his head to look at his father. It might prevent the inevitable. But he had no desire to look at his father’s beady eyes, or watch his mouth move as he yelled. It always seemed like, if Reuenthal looked at him, he suddenly stopped hearing him, and of the two sensations, he would prefer to hear what was coming, rather than see it. “Yes, sir,” Reuenthal said, but he didn’t move.

The floor creaked as his father stepped into his room. There. The threshold was crossed. Reuenthal could relax now. He could let the scene play out, as it usually did.

“Where did you go tonight?” his father asked again.

“Count Mariendorf’s estate,” Reuenthal said.

His father scowled. “Was his bitch wife there?”

“Yes.”

“The only reason she likes you is because she thinks you’re her brother’s bastard, you know.”

“You’ve told me, sir.”

“And I’ve also told you not to associate with them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are they generous to you? Is that why you like them?”

“No, sir.”

“You live on my generosity,” his father said. “You live in my house. Not theirs. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t think you do.”

There was a moment of silence. Reuenthal didn’t have an answer for that.

“If you understood that you live here on MY generosity, you would not abuse it by taking my car and lying to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Look me in the eye when I am speaking to you,” his father said, and then grabbed Reuenthal’s ear. He winced, then controlled his wince, but it was too late. That wince had looked too much like a closing of his eyes, perhaps, or maybe there was no reason for it at all, but his father slapped him across the face.

Reuenthal held his teeth together so that he didn’t bite his tongue and scrunched up his eyes, as he knew from experience that trying to cover his face with his hands would only make things worse, because his father would try to pry them away. His shoulders involuntarily hiked up, and he dug his nails into his legs as his father hit his ears and face, pulled his hair, and beat his shoulders. He didn’t know how long it lasted, but his father got bored after a while.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Reuenthal said through gritted teeth, though he had entirely forgotten what understanding his father was trying to extract out of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from one of the opening scenes of Lawrence of Arabia. You can see it here https://youtu.be/TvQViPBAvPk
> 
> Who is Lawrence in this situation? Well, who knows. 
> 
> I hope this opening scene sufficiently introduces us all to the concept of Oh. He Has PROBLEMS Problems.
> 
> Please pay attention to the following motifs, as there will be a quiz later: light and darkness, deer, thresholds, fire. 
> 
> I’ll take [projection] for 500.
> 
> Thank you to Lydia for the beta read <3


	2. Going to Alaska

_ August 475 I.C., Odin _

Reuenthal packed everything he would need to leave to attend the IOA very carefully, keeping his bag stashed in the linen closet, which his father never opened. He wasn’t bringing much, just enough clothing to wear when he wouldn’t be in uniform, and a few things he didn’t want his father to throw out or destroy while he was gone. He packed light, though, because he was only going to be able to take one trip from the house to school, as he was going by taxi.

On the morning of the day he was supposed to report to the IOA, Reuenthal tried to gather his things while his father was still asleep, and carry them into the front hall to wait for the taxi to arrive at the house. Unfortunately, this required more than one trip, and the sound of Reuenthal moving around in the house summoned his father out of bed.

The morning light was streaming in through the window above the front door, illuminating the dust motes in the air. Reuenthal was looking out past the blinds to watch the street for the taxi’s arrival. His father stomped down the stairs, wearing only his underwear and his slippers.

“Running away?” he asked, looking at the bags at Reuenthal’s feet.

“No, sir,” Reuenthal said.

“You’ve packed like you are.”

“I wouldn’t stand in the hall with my things if I was running away. I would leave.”

“Don’t be smart with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you going, then?”

Reuenthal pulled his well worn IOA acceptance letter out of his pocket and held it out. His father stared at it for a second, then pulled the paper out of Reuenthal’s hand. He read the letter slowly.

“Think you’re smart, then?”

“What do you want me to say to that, sir?” It was backtalk, but his father seemed like he was in a relatively good mood this morning. He was leaving, anyway. The sense of freedom that gave thrilled him a little bit, enough to make him take risks he might not have otherwise.

“You won’t last there,” his father said. “I don’t know why you bother.”

“I will.”

“They’ll kick you out.”

“I doubt it.”

His father shook his head. “Will you be coming back here?”

Reuenthal shrugged. He would probably have to, for summer and winter breaks, but he didn’t want to commit himself to that one way or another.

“Do you need any money?”

“No, sir,” Reuenthal said. He had enough saved from his summer job that he would have enough petty cash to last him the year. Tuition and room and board were both covered by the government, to be paid back in the form of his commission as an officer upon graduation.

“Good.” His father held out the letter, and Reuenthal took it back, folded it, and slid it into his pocket.

There were times they could be almost civil to each other. In the hallway mirror, Reuenthal could see both of their reflections. They had the same dark brown hair, but that meant nothing, and was approximately where any resemblance ended. Reuenthal looked like a spitting image of his mother, in most respects. His father’s eyes were watery and blue, sunken a little into his face. Reuenthal had one blue eye from his mother, and one black eye from somewhere else. Their eyes met in the reflection and Reuenthal didn’t look away, even though the early sun bouncing off the mirror was almost too bright to look at.

His father shook his head. “Don’t make a fool out of yourself,” he said, then turned and walked away down the hallway.

The taxi was pulling up outside.

* * *

It took very little effort for Reuenthal to unpack his belongings in his new dorm room, since he had so little. This left him with plenty of time to familiarize himself with his class schedule and walk around the campus to find all the buildings.

He liked his new uniform. It was nicer than the one his high school had assigned. He enjoyed the relative anonymity of walking around the campus and strolling through the freshman dormitories, reading the names off of the little brass tags on the doors, scoping out who lived where.

The IOA’s intranet, where he had gone to find his class schedule, had listed a public ranking of all the freshmen students. Reuenthal made sure to memorize the names of the top thirty or so, since he wanted to know what kind of competition he was going to have.

These sorts of information gathering exercises lasted until dinner, when the whole freshman class was supposed to gather in the largest dining area on campus, a formal hall, for a convocation meal. The sun was setting as he walked up to the building, lighting up its windows like pillars of fire. Reuenthal’s shadow filled the entire path in front of him, at least until he reached the heavy wooden doors, and entered the dim hall. 

The room was already half populated with students, and a general hum of conversation filled the air. The atmosphere was tense, not helped by the room being too warm. It was still the heart of summer, and the room was filled with bodies, throwing off heat. Candles flickered on the tables. Ostentatious, Reuenthal decided, but he didn’t mind. He headed towards the front of the room. Seating had been assigned by rank, or something close to it. He was seated at the head table, in any event.

There was already one student sitting there, staring vacantly into space. Reuenthal looked down at the nametag placed in front of him which read “Hank von Leigh.” This, then, was his immediate rival, the second place student.

Reuenthal had examined the nametag before getting a close look at Leigh, but as he sat down, he had a chance to look at him more carefully. He was surprised at what he found.

First, and most noticeably, Leigh was obviously a foreigner of some kind. Perhaps he was the son of a rebel defector, or something. His whole facial shape was one that Reuenthal had only ever seen in history books, or in photographs of rebel politicians and soldiers and the like. Still, despite the obvious foreign-ness of Leigh, there was something arresting about him.

Leigh had messy black hair falling around his face. It looked like he had perhaps tried and failed to style it before coming here, because it was slightly damp, and pushed in ways it wouldn’t naturally sit, based on the way it was drying. He had a long, flat nose sitting above a gentle mouth. His eyes were dark, and he met Reuenthal’s studying gaze for a moment, then his face twitched, and he tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling. Reuenthal’s eyes traced down Leigh’s neck, then, watching it move as he swallowed. Was he nervous? Reuenthal couldn’t exactly tell.

Neither of them said anything, and it took several of the other new freshmen coming in and taking their seats to break the silence that lay between them. Reuenthal put names to faces: Ansbach, a sallow faced man (sixth in the class); Bittenfeld, a loud redhead (eighth); Wahlen, broad shouldered and kind looking (fourth); Gautier, sneering and blond (third). More trickled in. 

There was the usual bluster of young men figuring each other out, started by Bittenfeld. He pointed at Ansbach, though Reuenthal wasn’t sure why. Maybe they already knew each other? “Hey, Ansbach.”

“What?” Ansbach was not interested.

“You might be worried that I’m aiming for your place. You shouldn’t be. I’m aiming for his.” And, of course, Bittenfeld pointed directly at Reuenthal.

This kind of posturing was more stupid than anything, so Reuenthal just said, “Oh?” and left it at that. 

Wahlen’s expression indicated that he also found this unnecessarily silly. “You know that’s not how ranks work, right?” he said. Bittenfeld frowned and crossed his arms. Wahlen might have rolled his eyes, but it was too dark to tell. To change the subject away from useless posturing, Wahlen said, “What departments are you all in? I’m in strategic warfare.”

Dutifully, everyone answered the question. All said strategic warfare, with one exception. Leigh, when everyone looked at him, shrugged his shoulders with a kind of guileless smile on his face and said, “Military history.”

“How are you number two, then?” Bittenfeld asked. Reuenthal was glad that he had, because he also wanted to know the answer, but was not quite rude enough to just blurt it out. “My cousin—“ Reuenthal filed away the information that Bittenfeld had family connections, despite not having a noble name— “said that history is for people who couldn’t hack it in strats, but were too bad at math to go into engineering.”

“You could stand to be more polite to people who outrank you,” Wahlen said. So, he cared about respecting the proper order. Interesting. Still, even he was curious, based on the tone in his voice.

“I like history,” Leigh said. He was still smiling, though his smile had a nervous edge to it now, and he wasn’t meeting anyone’s eyes.

“You’re going to be eaten alive,” Ansbach said. The viciousness in his tone gave Reuenthal pause, and he studied Ansbach again for a second. His lips were curled up around his teeth, and he was looking at Leigh with outright hatred. Reuenthal made his judgement of Ansbach then: he was dangerous.

Reuenthal supposed he should be grateful to Leigh. His foreign face in the number two spot had stolen all of the interest of the rest of the top students. In any other year, Reuenthal as number one might have been under their scrutiny, but Leigh was getting the brunt of it instead. Reuenthal was sure he could have held up under whatever microscope they chose to examine him, but he didn’t have to. Maybe he would later, when some of the curiosity about Leigh’s face wore off, and they all grew to know each other more by their talents, but he didn’t know for sure.

If his peers spent their energy tormenting the number two student instead of trying to beat the number one, that would make it easy for Reuenthal to stay on top.

Then again, Reuenthal thought, all this would depend on how Leigh himself reacted to the situation, and how smart he was. Reuenthal couldn’t tell, not from just this few minutes of association.

There might have been more conversation between the students, but then some appropriately patriotic music began to play, and the whole assembly had to rise to greet the chancellor of the school as he walked in to give his welcoming address.

Reuenthal barely paid any attention to the sonorous speech. Instead, he watched as a group of waiters came around and placed glasses of wine in front of each student. He looked across the table at Leigh, who was listening to the speech with a look of annoyance. Their eyes met, then Leigh looked away. It was so deliberate, that turning away. Reuenthal wondered what it meant.

At last, Chancellor von Steger raised his own wine glass. “To your future as students, and to the Empire! Sieg Kaiser! Prosit!”

Across from him, the mumbled “Prosit” that Leigh gave could not have been less enthusiastic. Reuenthal found it amusing that Leigh so clearly did not want to be here, but was second in the class. He raised his own glass, gave a “Prosit” of his own in Leigh’s general direction, then drank. The wine was cheap, but he didn’t mind at all.

* * *

Reuenthal spent his first few days of classes mostly alone. Although he had no problems with the other students, per se, he had no real use for them. He wasn’t the most social of people under the best of circumstances, and the competitive atmosphere of the IOA made him suspect that most people who would want to be his friend here would turn around and stab him in the back without a moment’s hesitation, should the opportunity arise.

His classes didn’t seem particularly difficult. The majority were focused specifically around strategic warfare, with only one required history class, and one required math class this semester. The lectures were dull, but the subject matter was interesting, and Reuenthal was looking forward to the practical course. An older student, assigned as his mentor, had told him the practicum would be of the greatest importance towards preserving his class rank. All the students would compete against each other in simulated war games in a six-hour session on Wednesdays.

Reuenthal arrived in the classroom early, and chose a seat near the back so that he could watch all the rest of his classmates filter in. The course instructor, Captain Staden, was a grey haired man who stood stiffly in the front of the room, checking the time on a pocket watch. Just like Reuenthal, Staden was watching every student who walked into the room. Leigh was one of the last ones in the door, squeaking in just before Staden put his pocket watch away and said, “Welcome to the first class of the Strategic Warfare Practicum. I’m Captain Staden, the instructor for this course. We’ll all be seeing a lot of each other, unless you drop rank severely, since I run the top level practicum for all four years of the SW cohort.”

It wouldn’t actually take that much to fall out of this top class, Reuenthal noted. There were only about forty students in it to begin with. It seemed that these top students were in a different kind of leadership track than the rest of the class of fifteen hundred. He wondered exactly how much shifting of ranks there would be.

Staden explained how the class would operate. There would be one hour of theoretical lecture, explaining the scenario they would be playing out, and then the class would go off to actually play the war game. The games were conducted anonymously, with none of the participants knowing the names of the others. Four students would be playing each game: two would be competing, while the other two would work together to moderate the game. The way it worked, in theory, was that each competitor would send written orders to their simulated group of ships, or tanks, or soldiers, and the game moderators would then be responsible for deciding how those orders would be carried out. There was a hugely complicated set of rules for the GMs to follow when deciding how things would play out, but as Staden explained, a list of rules alone was inadequate for accurate simulations where students were free to come up with imaginative solutions to problems: a flexible human touch was required to decide outcomes. This was why the games were not simply conducted against and graded by computerized opponents.

The scenario that they would be playing out today was an interesting one. Staden apparently preferred ground warfare simulations to space battles, so this first game was taking place on a planet. The planet, a miserable ball of ice called Kapche-Lanka, was real, a hotly contested place where both the Empire and the rebels in the Free Planets’ Alliance had mining operations set up to gather rare ores. Communications on the planet were severely limited by near-constant snowstorms and by the fact that if either side attempted to put satellites in orbit, the other shot them down immediately. All travel was ground travel, because the weather was so bad that air travel was nearly impossible, and, except for a narrow strip of liquid water near the equator, there were no navigable waterways. 

Once the situation had been explained, each student was assigned a role, and sent out to a different room, where everyone sat in a private cubicle with a computer already set up to perform the simulation. Reuenthal was happy to be assigned a role actually playing the game, though he would have preferred to be playing attack, rather than defense.

He understood why attack and defense roles had to be assigned. If two students matched up against each other who both (correctly) believed that the safest thing to do was wait for the enemy to come to them, and simply defend their base without wasting resources trying to attack the enemy, then the game would be very boring, with neither student ever doing anything. Realistic, since that was most of what happened on the real planet, but boring and impossible to grade.

Reuenthal had at his disposal a fleet of tanks, stationary base artillery, and a decent number of soldiers. He had absolutely no information about his opponent, except that his opponent could only win by attacking him, and the general location of his base.

The first thing that Reuenthal did, then, was send out a few tanks as reconnaissance, sending them the five hundred kilometers or so to the other base. He ordered them not to try to report back by radio, just to turn around and return home once they had gathered information about the enemy’s strengths. He figured that radio was unreliable and would give away his tanks’ positions, if he wasn’t careful. 

While Reuenthal waited for his scouts to return, he spent some time arranging his base’s defenses to his liking. He knew that his opponent would likely have to approach from across the wide, flat plane in front of his base, but there was an off chance that he would send his troops on a long, circular route over the mountains and approach from behind. That part of the base was weakly defended, and so Reuenthal spent a great deal of time moving some of his stationary artillery to the back of the base, and positioning tanks waiting in some of the well mapped mountain passes.

Reuenthal’s scouts returned, giving him detailed information about how many tanks the enemy had at his disposal, and what his own base defenses were like. With this information, Reuenthal was half tempted to send out his tanks to try to capture the enemy base, but that wasn’t his win condition, so it would have been a waste of time, and probably would have cost him the game. His scout tanks also reported that they had been followed back, though the enemy tanks that had been following them had left and returned to their base as soon as they came within fifty kilometers of Reuenthal’s. Interesting.

Reuenthal had been considering what to do with this information when his computer screen suddenly went dark, and the TA at the front of the room announced that it was time for lunch. He was grateful for the opportunity to stand and stretch and go out into the warm summer sun. He got and ate lunch in the closest dining hall, finishing quickly. When he returned to the building where class was held, there was still a bit of time before he had to return to the game, so he leaned against the brick wall and watched students mill about on the green.

A fair distance away, too far to hear what was being said, Reuenthal watched two boys approach another student who was laying on the green, arms casually crossed underneath his head. The standing students were Gautier and Dietch, and Reuenthal suspected that the student taking a nap was Leigh. The three had a short conversation, ending with Gautier giving Leigh’s bag a sharp kick, scattering its contents on the grass. Leigh made no move to defend himself, and didn’t even sit up until Gautier and Dietch had walked away. 

Reuenthal was vaguely annoyed at the whole scene, and he wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed at Gautier and Dietch for causing trouble for no reason, or at Leigh for not defending himself. After all, Leigh was clearly more competent than the other two were. He had nothing to lose by defending himself. 

There were reasons, Reuenthal knew well enough, to choose not to defend oneself. But this was clearly not one of them.

He watched Leigh gather up his things. Leigh looked over at him, saw that he had been watching, and nodded. They headed back inside the building to resume class.

Back in the simulation, a blizzard had descended on Reuenthal’s base, reducing visibility to nothing. He posted extra watch at the outside of his base, for all the good it did him. He wasn’t sure if his opponent would be willing to risk attacking him during this weather, but Reuenthal hated the fact that he couldn’t see the enemy coming. Eventually, the snow lightened without any attack on Reuenthal’s base.

Apparently, though, his opponent had been driving through the blizzard, because the GMs reported to Reuenthal that he could now see enemy tanks on the horizon. The number reported was significantly less than the number that he had been told the enemy possessed, so Reuenthal was certain that this was a decoy force, and the rest were, as he had imagined, coming around from behind to attack his base over the mountains. He was very glad that he had moved his artillery, then.

Reuenthal fired on the attacking force with his stationary artillery, and there was a bit of a back and forth. Unfortunately, the fact that he had moved a significant amount of his artillery away did make it so his opponent could take out some of the remaining pieces and inch his way closer to Reuenthal’s base. Even though this was a small detachment, Reuenthal did not want them coming close to the entrance to his base, so he sent out his tanks.

Immediately, there was a problem. As soon as his tanks left the doors of his base, the GMs reported huge losses, sudden explosions that took out a huge chunk of his force and caused confusion among the rest. Although his tanks were being fired on by the enemy, he knew this could not have been caused by just a concentrated blast of artillery or tank fire. It had to be something else. He sent a command to investigate, and the answer came back quickly: the whole field outside his base had somehow been studded with landmines.

Reuenthal took a short breath, then got to work hastily reorganizing his formation, ordering his tanks to fire at the ground in front of them to clear away the landmines, which were not buried deeply, just hidden under a dusting of snow. A nearby hit from a tank gun blast was enough to set them off and allow his vehicles to move forward unhindered. It had been a clever trick the enemy had pulled, and it had cost Reuenthal dearly, but it wasn’t quite enough to allow this tiny force frontal access to his base. Reuenthal summoned back some of the forces that he had left guarding the rear of his base, to reinforce his defenses in the front.

The situation dissolved into a somewhat chaotic fight. When Reuenthal sent his tanks forward, the enemy split up and a small group managed to squeeze their way in between Reuenthal’s forces and the base, both blocking his retreat and allowing a group of their soldiers to disembark and try to take the base on foot. It was unfortunate, but Reuenthal was trying to focus on stopping the main bulk of tanks.

Then, he got a notification that a different group of enemy tanks had slipped around the back side of the base, and Reuenthal was immediately annoyed at himself for removing the tanks he had stationed back there. His artillery wasn’t doing enough to stop them, and they breached the defenses and started coming around the base from that direction.

Reuenthal wasn’t sure exactly what it would take for the other side to get a “win”. Did they have to capture his command center? Did they have to take the mine that was attached to the base, so that it could be used for their own production? That seemed likely. Given that Reuenthal no longer had any defenses inside his base, and there were people on foot headed for his command center, he gave one last order. His remaining artillery turned around, facing inwards, and started shelling his own mine, destroying vital, unprotected equipment, so that even if this base was taken, it would be useless to the enemy for quite some time. Reuenthal was already losing, so he would at least make the victory for the enemy feel a little hollow.

All at once, it was like a switch had been flipped. As soon as his opponent realized that the mine was being destroyed, the GMs sent Reuenthal a message:

< Your opponent has announced a retreat. You have the option to end the game. Do you take it?

> Yes. 

The computer screen went black as his little simulation ended. Reuenthal stared at his reflection in the blank screen for a moment, then stood and stretched. He realized that he was the last person in the classroom. Even the TA who had been sitting at the front of the room had left. His opponent and GMs must have been sitting in different classrooms, and he had gone past the end of class time, playing out this game. He took his time gathering his belongings, not in any rush to get back to his dorm.

When he walked out into the hallway, Reuenthal was only a little surprised to find Leigh there, leaning with his eyes closed and his head tilted back against the cool stone hallway wall. His hair looked a mess, like he had been running his fingers through it nonstop for several hours, and his leg was jiggling, as though he was letting out some excess energy. He looked up when he heard Reuenthal moving in the hallway.

Reuenthal was a little surprised when Leigh spoke. “Hey, Reuenthal. Good game.” Reuenthal hadn’t noticed before, but it was obvious now— Leigh spoke with a distinct accent. Phezzani, probably.

Reuenthal walked towards him, and Leigh stiffened, perhaps worried that Reuenthal was going to torture him as Dietch and Gautier had, but Reuenthal meerely offered him his hand. “Good game.”

Leigh hesitated, then took his hand to shake. His hand was soft and warm, but his grip was firm. Reuenthal wondered how long Leigh would maintain eye contact. 

“I look forward to our rematch,” Reuenthal said as he dropped his hand.

Leigh made a face and rubbed the back of his head, the tone of the conversation suddenly casual. He seemed to have decided that Reuenthal wasn’t someone he needed to be wary of, which Reuenthal thought was a mistake on his part. “We’ll have to play other people before we match up again. And by then, I’m sure I’ll have lost my number two spot.” His voice was somewhat chagrined, and there was a hint of a smile on his face.

“Oh?”

“I’m not that invested.”

“Is that why you retreated right as the GM was telling me that the doors to my command center were being fired upon?” Reuenthal wanted to know if it had been an odd choice to retreat on the edge of victory, or if Leigh had had a specific victory condition that Reuenthal had managed to foil. 

“I had already lost at that point. You could have wiped out my tanks if I’d stayed much longer, and then everyone left would have been stranded, and…” He shook his head. “It was a pointless battle, anyway. The planet isn’t worth the effort.”

Reuenthal was surprised that Leigh thought that he had lost. It was true that Reuenthal still had a numerical advantage, but the loss of his command center and the mine would have made coordination difficult, and any victory would have been a pyrrhic one. He might have been able to regroup his tanks and retake the base, but if the game had ended immediately after Leigh had taken the command center, as Reuenthal suspected it would have, it would have looked like a decisive loss on his part. It all came down to timing, and where one sliced the victory at. Leigh didn’t seem to realize that, though, and was looking at it as though this was a real objective, with real lives at stake, rather than just class points. 

“In a sense,” Reuenthal said.

“What do you mean?”

“You should decide what level you’re playing the game on, von Leigh.” Reuenthal had no desire to start giving Leigh real tips on how to beat him next time, so instead of saying anything else, he gave a curt nod and headed off down the hallway. He could feel Leigh watching him as he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from a mountain goats song. https://youtu.be/XErY0ZueBEQ
> 
> _Because from where we are now, it seems, really  
>  That everything is growing in a thousand different ways:  
> That the soil is soaked through with old blood and with relatives  
> Who were buried here, or close to here, and they are giving rise  
> To what is happening. Or can you tell me otherwise?  
> I am going to Alaska, where the animals can kill you  
> But they do so in silence, as though if no-one hears them  
> Then it really won't matter. I am going to Alaska!  
> They tell me that it's perfect for my purposes_
> 
> if you’ve been reading this story in publication rather than in chronological order, you’ll know that this song also gives rise to the title of the other reuenthal section: Whatever It Takes to Keep the Body Warm.
> 
> Thank you to Lydia for the beta read!


	3. Saint Sebastian Tended by Saint Irene

_ October 475 I.C., Odin _

Life at the IOA settled into a rhythm easily. The week seemed to orbit around the Wednesday practicum, where all of the top students jostled to earn or keep their places in the ranking. Reuenthal was, generally speaking, untouchable in the practicum, as the only person who had come even close to beating him was Leigh, during that first week. Reuenthal had been a little surprised to find that he had been given the “win” for that match, since he had considered himself the loser.

Over the next few weeks, Reuenthal watched as Leigh remained undefeated after their first match. It wasn’t for lack of trying on the other students’ part, either. More than once, he had heard people speaking loudly about Leigh, his tactics, and how to beat him. Out of curiosity, Reuenthal also looked over the transcripts of Leigh’s matches, trying to see what made him such a frustration for the other members of the class.

There didn’t seem to be much of a pattern in Leigh’s matches. In the nine weeks of classes, Leigh had gone up against a different opponent every time, and had used a completely different strategy in each one. Reuenthal didn’t realize what Leigh was doing, until one week he spent a very easy two hours running circles around someone in the practicum, who he  _ thought _ was Leigh. After all, one of Leigh’s previous matches that Reuenthal had looked over had involved him charging headlong into a massed enemy, catching them off guard, and using superior mid-battle positioning to crush the opposing side. That had been a difficult battle, and had cost a good chunk of Leigh’s forces, but he had won. When Reuenthal then faced an enemy who charged directly at him without even the barest preparation or hesitancy, he had thought that he was facing Leigh trying the same thing twice. But, when he emerged victorious from the practicum, he had found a red-faced Bittenfeld waiting for him.

Both he and Bittenfeld were disappointed for their own reasons.

“Damn, Reuenthal, you couldn’t have flinched a little, could you?” Bittenfeld asked as they walked to lunch.

Reuenthal raised an eyebrow. “Is that what usually happens?”

“Yes.” Bittenfeld picked up a stick from the ground and whacked at the bushes as they walked past them, causing their crisp autumn leaves to shiver. “You’re ruining my win:loss ratio, you know.”

“What is it?”

“Four:two,” Bittenfeld said. “But I guess it’s four:three, now.”

“Who’d you lose to before?”

“Gautier. And Leigh. Obviously.” Bittenfeld whacked the bush. “Mostly I’ve been against people lower than me, though.”

“If it’s any consolation, I thought you were Leigh,” Reuenthal said.

Bittenfeld snorted derisively. “Now you’re just lying. My game against Leigh lasted longer than this.”

Reuenthal shrugged as Bittenfeld attacked another bush. “He’s taking your tactics, then. Look at his old matches.”

“If you say so.” Bittenfeld said. “Whatever. He’s welcome to use my tactics, as long as he doesn’t try ‘em against you or Gautier.” He laughed a little bit. “Or me. I’d beat him at my own game.”

“Would you?”

“Well, he did something different against me, last time. But if we went head to head—“ A particularly vicious slashing of bushes ensued— “I’d come out on top.”

“I hope your confidence is well-founded,” Reunthal said dryly.

Bittenfeld snorted. “Are you not going to wish me luck in beating your nemesis?”

“I wasn’t aware that I had one.”

“Well, if he beats you, the reputation of the freshman class is ruined.”

“It’s unclear to me how my personal standing has somehow come to define the reputation of the entire freshman class,” Reuenthal said. “If you think we’re on the same team, you’re wrong.”

Bittenfeld continued as though Reuenthal’s objections had meant nothing. “All I’m saying is that the man is an embarrassment. I’m not even talking about him being from Phezzan, or wherever the hell he’s from. He’s just— you’ve seen him in physicals, right?”

It was true that Leigh was consistently at the bottom of the rankings in terms of the mandatory weekend physical classes. He could barely run in a straight line. “I could hardly avoid seeing him.”

“Yeah. Can you just imagine that guy being number one? And he’s not even in our department. I don’t get it.”

“Perhaps you should ask him what his secret is, rather than me.”

“I did already,” Bittenfeld whined.

“And what answer did you get?”

“He told me that he prefers to GM rather than actually play.”

“That’s not an answer to the question.”

“I know! And you know what the worst part is?”

“What, Bittenfeld?”

“He sounded like he was telling the truth.”

“And why is that the worst part?”

“You might not know this, Reuenthal, but the worst feeling in the world is losing to a guy who doesn’t even enjoy beating you.”

“Just for you, Bittenfeld, I’ll take enough joy in beating you for the both of us.”

Bittenfeld snorted with laughter. “I’m sure Leigh will be happy to learn you’re picking up that burden for him.”

“You’re going to tell him I said that?”

“Nah,” Bittenfeld said. “No point. He’d probably just say something weird at me.”

Overall, Reuenthal was acceptably social with his classmates, but not close with any of them. This suited him fine. As Bittenfeld had pointed out, many of them considered him their only hope of stopping Leigh from taking the number one spot in the class. Reuenthal didn’t care about the rest of the class’s obsession with keeping the number one spot out of the hands of a foreigner, but he did care about his “undefeated” game record. He wanted to have a rematch against Leigh, to see if he could win in a more conclusive way, but between August and October, no such match was forthcoming.

There was little, then, that broke up the monotony of the school year until one week in October, when Reuenthal sat at dinner with Wahlen, whom he found tolerable, and Ansbach, whom he distrusted.

“You both got invited to this...thing, right?” Wahlen asked. “At Neue Sanssouci?”

“It said it was for the top ten students, so yes,” Ansbach said. “Did your mentors tell you anything about it?”

“You talk to your mentor?” Wahlen asked. “Mine basically said, ‘Don’t bother me,’ at the beginning of the year, and I haven’t talked to him since.”

“Not sure what you think he’d tell me,” Reuenthal said. “Neue Sanssouci. Catered breakfast. Horseback hunt. Wear your dress uniform. It’s all very simple.”

“You seem nonchalant about it. Go to Neue Sanssouci often,  _ von  _ Reuenthal?” Ansbach asked. Of the three sitting at the dinner table, Reuenthal was the only one who had a noble name.

“My father is just reichsritter, so no,” Reuenthal said. 

“Who else is noble?” Wahlen asked. “Just Strum and Deitch, right? Oh, and Stuben— he’s still tenth.”

“And Leigh,” Reuenthal said.

“Please,” Ansbach said. “He wouldn’t know noble if it bit him.”

“Hank von Leigh,” Reuenthal said. “It’s in the name, like it or not.”

Ansbach scowled. “You seem eager to invite him into the ranks of the nobility.”

“Ansbach, if I had the right or the ability to give or rescind noble lineage, the world would be a different place.”

Wahlen chuckled. “Sieg Kaiser Oskar.”

Reuenthal took a sip of coffee, then said, very deliberately, “Let’s simply say that I’m content with being first in our class, so that none of us are accused of seeking things above our station.”

“I was joking,” Wahlen said.

“You should be warning Leigh about looking for things above his station,” Ansbach said.

“I don’t know why you’re under the impression that I speak with him,” Reuenthal said. “And, besides, I just said that he has his station, and there’s nothing that you, or I, or anybody besides Kaiser Friedrich himself can do about it.”

“Ansbach, would you even be happier if he didn’t have that von in his name?” Wahlen asked. “It seems like you’d hate him even more if he was a complete nobody like me.”

“All I’m saying is that he has a position he doesn’t deserve—“

“Deserve?” Reuenthal asked. “If you’re talking about a noble name, the only thing that any nobles have done to ‘deserve’ that is be born, in which case you’ll have to take the issue up with Leigh’s parents. And if you’re talking about his second place rank—“ Reuenthal shrugged. “He beat you, anyway.”

“I don’t know why you’re so eager to defend him,” Ansbach said.

“A series of patently obvious facts is not a defense,” Reuenthal said. “You can think you’re better than him if you want; I don’t really care. But I’m not going to pretend that the class ranks don’t exist, or that they’re meaningless.”

“That’s easy for the number one to say.”

“Is it?” Reuenthal asked. “I suppose you should hope that I, too, lose my position to Leigh, so that I can curse him like the rest of you do.”

“You think you’re in danger of being beaten by him?” Wahlen asked, curious.

“I think that I would like to see him try,” Reuenthal said.

“There’s more than one way that a person could lose their position,” Ansbach said.

“Oh?” Reuenthal asked. “Am I going to fall prey to some sort of scandal?”

“No,” Ansbach said after half a second. “You are the only thing standing in the way of embarrassment for the entire freshman class. But perhaps Kaiser Friedrich will take one look at Leigh and get rid of him.”

Wahlen laughed. “I doubt we’re going to meet the kaiser.”

“We’ll see,” Reuenthal said. 

“You know how to ride, right?” Wahlen asked. 

“Of course,” Ansbach said.

* * *

The day of the horseback hunt at the kaiser’s palace arrived. It was a blustery Saturday, and between the earliness of the hour and the grey clouds thick in the sky, the students waiting for the bus were almost standing in darkness. The upperclassmen were excited and chatty amongst themselves, but the freshmen were, for the most part, tense. Reuenthal leaned against the low brick wall at the IOA entrance and watched his classmates mill around. 

He picked out Bittenfeld and Wahlen, watching as Wahlen handed Bittenfeld a paper cup filled with some liquid that steamed the air, and then as Bittenfeld drank it so fast that he must have burned himself pretty badly. He crumpled the cup, then kicked it over the wall back onto campus, causing Wahlen to punch him in the arm.

Gautier, Deitch, and Ansbach were standing together, their heads bent low, speaking quietly enough that no one else could hear them over the wind.

Leigh, as usual, was standing by himself, looking at his phone. Reuenthal wondered if he was texting his family, since he obviously had no friends at school.

The bus eventually pulled up in front of them with a wheezing and grinding of brakes, and everyone piled on. Reuenthal ended up seated next to Strum, who promptly fell asleep for the duration of the drive, leaving Reuenthal free to silently work on some homework on his phone.

Students were chatty on the bus ride, but when they arrived at the grounds of Neue Sanssouci and transferred into a fleet of horse drawn carriages (since motor vehicles weren’t allowed on the palace grounds), the atmosphere grew tense and quiet.

Bittenfeld pointed out the window of the carriage at a statue as they drove past. “There’s the goddess of victory,” he said. “I’ll have to dedicate my catch to her.”

“Don’t make promises to the gods you can’t keep,” Wahlen muttered.

Bittenfeld scowled. “What’s the point of going on a hunt if you’re not going to catch anything?”

“The hunt isn’t the point of the visit,” Reuenthal said after a second. 

“Then what is?”

“All the former class ranks are public, you know,” Reuenthal said. “If you look at who’s high in fleet command right now, Muckenburger, Ovelesser, all those people— almost no one who’s currently an important flag officer who doesn’t already have family connections was below top ten in their year.”

Wahlen raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

Reuenthal shrugged. “It’s easy to fall off the leadership track, but hard to get on it in the first place. I expect that this tradition is a way of trying to instill some… expectation of future mutual respect between the crown and the kaiser’s potential high officers.”

“Hunh,” Wahlen said. “I guess.”

The carriages rolled up to the front of the palace, and all the students were ushered through the long and opulent hallways until they arrived in some kind of reception hall. They were ordered to array themselves by year and class rank, which meant that Reuenthal ended up right next to Leigh, who seemed miserable and tense. Reuenthal had a second to glance at him, but then the doors at the front of the room opened, and in walked Kaiser Friedrich IV. All of the students snapped to attention and saluted.

He was an older man, with a pale, wrinkled face and grey hair. This clearly wasn’t much of a formal reception, as the kaiser was dressed only in day wear, a plush red velvet jacket and black pants. He looked sharply at the gathered students in silence for a second.

“You’re all seniors this year?” he asked the front row.

The top senior student responded. “Yes, Mein Kaiser.”

“Good. Good. I hope to see you all doing great things within the next few years.” The kaiser walked a little ways down the front row, stopping in front of the sixth student. “Arleheim, please give your father my condolences on the passing of your mother.”

“I will, Mein Kaiser,” that student said. “Thank you.”

Friedrich then exchanged perfunctory greetings with the junior and sophomore leading students, before he came to Reuenthal. Reuenthal kept his back straight, his voice even, and he did not look directly in the kaiser’s eye.

“So, you’re the new students,” the kaiser said.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Reuenthal replied.

“I hope to see you all return next year.”

“We will,” Reuenthal said. “Sir.”

“Excellent.” The kaiser seemed about to go, but then he hesitated and looked at Reuenthal more closely. “What’s your name?"

“Oskar von Reuenthal, sir.”

“Oh, you’re from Count Marbach’s family. He didn’t tell me you were in the Academy. I will have to congratulate him on having a successful grandson.”

This was the last thing that Reuenthal wanted the kaiser to do, but he couldn’t do anything except grit his teeth and say, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

This conversation with Reuenthal had apparently also given the kaiser time to notice Leigh and his obviously foreign face. Friedrich addressed him next. “What is your name, cadet?”

“Hank von Leigh, sir.” Leigh seemed viscerally uncomfortable, and Reuenthal couldn’t blame him. Out of the corner of his eye, though he was still looking straight ahead, Reuenthal could see Ansbach twitch a little, perhaps feeling vindicated.

“Von Leigh…” the kaiser said, sounding like he was giving the name real thought. “And where are you from, von Leigh?”

“Phezzan-land, sir.”

The kaiser nodded. “Hm. I’m glad to hear that Phezzan is still producing people of worth to the fatherland.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Leigh said. 

The kaiser nodded thoughtfully again, then turned and left, letting all of the students relax in a visible release of tension from the room.

“Too bad about your predictions,” Wahlen said to Ansbach as they walked out. “Looks like you won’t be rid of him that easily!” 

Wahlen was clearly joking, but Ansbach’s face was pinched and pensive, and he didn’t say anything in response, merely brushing past Wahlen to join Gautier and Deitch further up. 

The students were all led to a dining hall, where one very long table had been set up for them, with a sumptuous meal laid out. They jostled for position and there was a general clattering of dishware as the boys rowdily passed one another the bread and platters of sausages.

Reuenthal, for his part, was mostly silent, eating his breakfast and drinking his coffee steadily. He couldn’t help but hope that the kaiser would forget that he had said he would speak to his grandfather about him. It probably wouldn’t matter, either way, but Reuenthal had no desire to associate with Count Marbach, and Count Marbach had no desire to associate with him.

Unfortunately, Bittenfeld had to go and bring up the subject, in between bites of pancake. “Hey, Reuenthal, what are you doing here if you’re a count’s grandson?”

“Maternal grandfather,” Reuenthal said shortly. “I don’t inherit anything.” He took a sip of his coffee and looked directly at Bittenfeld. “It would suit you better to stay out of other people’s family matters.”

“I was just curious,” Bittenfeld said. He crossed his arms, scowling. “No need to be tetchy about it.” Reuenthal smiled, but it was a warning expression. Bittenfeld shook his head and looked away, muttering under his breath, “This guy…”

After the breakfast, the students were led to the huge stables, where each was given a bow and quiver full of arrows and allowed to pick a horse. Reuenthal chose a tall black stallion, narrowly edging out Dietch, who had been aiming for the same animal. 

The weather had improved slightly since the morning, though the wind still whipped through the trees, sending their few remaining leaves rattling and shivering in the cold fall light. The students broke off into individuals or smaller packs, heading out with bows in hand to try to find deer in the well stocked hunting grounds of Neue Sanssouci.

Reuenthal rode by himself for a while. He doubted he would actually catch a deer, and he wouldn’t have anything to do with it even if he did, so he was mostly enjoying the horseback ride as an exercise, occasionally pulling an arrow from his quiver and aiming at knots in distant trees and the like.

It was peaceful, there in the forest, or at least it was until he heard hoofbeats, more than one horse, moving quickly through the woods.

“I saw him go that way,” Dietch said, his voice distant and low.

“He rides so badly, it’s not like he could have gotten very far.” That was Gautier.

“Will you shut up?” Ansbach. “Listen. You can probably hear him.”

Reuenthal obeyed Ansbach’s advice, and stayed very still so that the other three students wouldn’t hear or see him distantly through the trees. He couldn’t quite see them either, aside from vague blurred outlines through the brambly undergrowth. One of them pointed, and the three moved quietly away, their hoses’ footsteps soft on the fallen leaves.

There was no point in chasing after the trio. He suspected that they wouldn’t actually find Leigh, and Reuenthal had no desire to get on their bad side by defending him. The worst they would do would be to probably steal his horse and leave him in the woods. If they tied him up or something, Reuenthal should probably stay around to let him loose.

Reuenthal waited, his hands loosely on the reins of his own horse. Far off in the woods, he heard a commotion: hoofbeats, the sudden whinny of a horse, more thrumming of hooves, and then almost nothing. Slowly, Reuenthal spurred his horse forward, suddenly anxious to find Leigh.

Leigh was a decent distance away, and Reuenthal almost missed him. Except for the fresh-dug hoofprints in the loose wet dirt, there was little trace of where anyone had been. Reuenthal traced them until he found Leigh in a clearing, propped up against a tree, at the end of a short path smudged through the brown leaf litter. Leigh must have dragged himself from where he had fallen off his horse. He wasn’t looking at Reuenthal, and Reuenthal wasn’t even sure if he knew that he was there. Leigh’s eyes were closed, his face was scrunched up in pain, and his hands were on the shaft of the arrow that protruded from his thigh, staining his leg, hands, and the ground all around him with blood.

“If you want to bleed to death, you’ll pull that out,” Reuenthal said.

Leigh opened his eyes. His voice was strained when he said, “I see you’ve come to gloat, too.”

There was something about the light, crashing down through the nearly-bare tree branches, the way it caught on Leigh’s black hair and the blood on his hands. It made the scene move slowly, made Reuenthal just look at Leigh on the ground for a moment. There was something almost beautiful about him, despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that he was bleeding out on the forest floor. His wide, dark eyes reminded Reuenthal too much of the deer they had been sent to hunt.

Reuenthal dismounted, asking, “Who shot you?”

“Didn’t see,” Leigh said. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the tree, baring his throat. Reuenthal crouched down next to him, filled with a sudden desire to touch his neck. Leigh’s breath hitched as Reuenthal came close to him, body tensing a little, but he didn’t move from the weirdly vulnerable position he was sitting in.

Reuenthal picked up one of Leigh’s hands, pulling it gently away from the shaft of the arrow protruding from his left thigh. Leigh’s blood was on his hands as he investigated the wound, seeing how the arrow went all the way through his leg.

It reminded him of the worst injury he had ever had. When Reuenthal was nine, he had climbed a tree behind his father’s house, intent on gathering up the abandoned bird’s nest in the crook of a branch. He had slipped and fallen, and had broken his arm so badly that the bone had come out from the skin. Neither the injury nor the cast that he had been in all winter stuck out in his mind, though. When he thought about the incident, there were two things that he remembered. The first was the sensation of his foot slipping off the tree branch, the moment he began to fall. It was like crossing a threshold, that feeling that whatever happened was now unstoppable, and everything would be different afterwards, but that he could do nothing to prevent it. The second thing he remembered was that, the day after his arm had been put in a cast, his father had made him stand outside and watch as he took a chainsaw and cut the tree down. Reuenthal had never understood why he had done that, and he had never asked.

As Reuenthal gently pried the fabric of Leigh’s pants away from the wound, seeing the arrow embedded deep in the flesh, he felt like he was on that threshold now.

“You’re a regular Saint Sebastian,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Reuenthal said. Leigh’s eyes were open now, watching him. Reuenthal fished in his pocket for his knife, which he flipped open. “I’m going to cut this off. Hold still.”

Leigh was tense as Reuenthal cracked his knife through the arrow shaft, the feathered end breaking away in his hand, leaving just a splintered stub sticking out of Leigh’s leg.

Leigh’s breath was coming shallowly. “Do I need a tourniquet?”

Reuenthal decided that probably wouldn’t hurt, so he pulled off his jacket, leaving himself in just his white dress shirt, and gently lifted Leigh’s leg so that he could slip the jacket like a rope around his leg, cinching it as tight as he could make it. Leigh hissed in a breath.

“Ow,” he said, his voice almost humorously flat. Reuenthal could appreciate that Leigh was keeping himself calm and under control, despite the fact that if Reuenthal hadn’t been here, this might have been a deadly wound.

“The medicine is not worse than the malady,” Reuenthal said. “Can you stand?” He offered Leigh his hand, and helped pull him to his feet, Leigh struggling to get his uninjured leg underneath himself. As he stood, his face grew pale and slack for a moment as the blood rushed out of his head, and Reuenthal had to catch him to keep him from falling, wrapping his arms around Leigh’s chest. 

He was warm, Reuenthal found. Heavy, when his legs weren’t supporting him, but soft. Leigh came back to consciousness with a twitch, barely half a second later, not even seeming to notice that he had been out. He took a hobbling step forward, Reuenthal supporting him under his arm.

“Where’d your horse go?” Reuenthal asked.

“Do I look like I know the answer to that question?” Leigh’s sudden snippiness was funny more than it was annoying. 

Reuenthal’s horse was a patient beast, and he stayed still as Reuenthal said, “Up,” and got himself underneath Leigh to force him into the saddle. Leigh’s fingers gripping the pommel were white, and he started to slip sideways once again, nearly falling off the horse. Reuenthal held him up with both hands on his chest. “Do I need to tie you to the horse?” Reuenthal asked.

Leigh’s response came with a gasping breath. “I’m fine.”

Reuenthal let out a half-chuckle. “Scoot forward.” Leigh couldn’t do that, so Reuenthal resigned himself to sitting very uncomfortably on the saddle, and he mounted the horse behind Leigh. Reuenthal slipped one arm around Leigh’s stomach while he held the reins with his other hand. Leigh’s back was pressed against his chest, and Reuenthal had to lean sideways to see past Leigh’s head, his hair tickling his cheek. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you like this, but I think it’s better than having you walk out.”

“It’s fine,” Leigh said. His voice was weak. “I’ll try not to fall off on you.”

“I’ll ride gently, then,” Reuenthal said. He spurred the horse forward, trying to strike a balance between moving quickly and not jostling Leigh too much.

Leigh was leaning back against him, and with his hand splayed out across his stomach, Reuenthal could feel his shallow breaths. His hair was silky on Reuenthal’s face, and it smelled like soap and sweat. Reuenthal savored the moment, committing the sensations to memory.

They emerged from the forest near the stables. Wahlen and Bittenfeld were standing around, petting their horses and drinking from their canteens. When Bittenfeld saw Reuenthal and Leigh, he whistled, long and loud, and yelled, “Lose your horse, von Leigh?”

Reuenthal was not in the mood for Bittenfeld’s antics. He turned, and when he did, Bittenfeld caught sight of all of Leigh’s blood smeared across Reuenthal’s dress shirt. “Bittenfeld,” Reuenthal said, “I would appreciate it if you could find a doctor, or summon an ambulance to the entrance.”

Bittenfeld didn’t have to be told twice. He leapt onto his horse, and, with a bit of a yell, galloped off down the path towards the main part of the palace.

Wahlen walked over. “What happened?”

“I fell off my horse onto my quiver,” Leigh said, the words apparently taking great effort. Reuenthal could understand the impulse to lie. After all, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t explained away plenty of bruises as his own clumsiness in the past.

“Is that the story we’re sticking with?” Wahlen asked, deferring to Reuenthal as the leader. Reuenthal nodded, even though Wahlen’s eyes were narrowed.

Wahlen passed Leigh his canteen, and Leigh drank, the water spilling out of his mouth and down his front. Wahlen was asking some question about going to the entrance or waiting where they were, but Reuenthal was paying more attention to the way the canteen was slipping out of Leigh’s fingers, and the way he suddenly slumped completely back against Reuenthal’s chest, unconscious again. Reuenthal had the feeling that he wouldn’t be waking up, this time.

“Let’s go to the entrance,” Reuenthal said, holding Leigh tightly. Wahlen was on the phone with Bittenfeld, directing the doctor, scrambling with one hand to climb onto his own horse. Reuenthal nudged his forward, moving even more slowly now that Leigh was totally unconscious, supporting his whole weight with his arm. 

They were met at the road by a doctor with a Goldenbaum crest on his jacket, who introduced himself as the kaiser’s personal physician, along with Bittenfeld, who was allowing his horse to prance back and forth with him on it. Wahlen and Bittenfeld helped Reuenthal get Leigh off his horse and onto the ground, his head lolling slightly to the side, Reuenthal supporting underneath his arms, feeling rather like he had stepped out of some ancient religious painting. 

The doctor was examining Leigh’s leg, cutting off his pants with scissors, when the ambulance pulled up, wailing. 

There was some excitement as Leigh was loaded onto a stretcher.

“I’ll go with him to the hospital,” Reuenthal told Bittenfeld and Wahlen. “If anybody asks, that’s where we are.”

“Do you want us to… do anything about this?” Wahlen asked. “Do you know what happened?”

“Not now,” Reuenthal said. The stretcher was being loaded into the ambulance. “Maybe later.” The expression on Reuenthal’s face made Wahlen nod, sharply. “Keep an eye out for who’s talking, though. I know the generalities, but I want the specifics.”

“I will.”

“Good.” Reuenthal hopped into the ambulance before anybody could protest, and then the paramedics were slamming the doors shut.

He answered all their questions on Leigh’s behalf, giving them the same lie that Leigh had told. He doubted they believed the story, but since Leigh wasn’t awake to offer an alternative explanation, they couldn’t do anything except write it down.

Leigh only woke up once during the ride, his whole body jerking as he regained consciousness. He looked around, dazed for a second, taking in the IV in his arm and the fact that his pants had been cut off before his eyes settled on Reuenthal, leaning with his arms crossed on the bench in the ambulance. Leigh’s expression, which had been confused, mellowed out into… something else as he looked at Reuenthal. He made a soft, almost pathetic noise.

“Eloquent as ever, von Leigh,” Reuenthal said. “We’re on the way to the hospital.”

“How long?” Leigh managed.

“You’re not going to have a better time when we get there, so you might as well go back to sleep.” Reuenthal wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but it looked like Leigh smiled at that, before throwing his free arm over his face.

“Fine,” he mumbled, and then passed out again.

When they arrived at the hospital, there was another long process where Leigh was ushered away to be prepped for surgery to remove the arrow, while Reuenthal was asked all his personal details. Given that the sum total of things that Reuenthal knew about Leigh were his name, the fact that he was an IOA student, and that he was from Phezzan, this didn’t help much, and the situation became even stupider when he put the doctors on the phone with the IOA student affairs center, and it turns out that Leigh’s personal file was basically empty, not even having an emergency contact listed.

“Just put me down as his emergency contact,” Reuenthal said. “It’s fine.”

In any event, Leigh was lucid enough to sign off on this, so no one argued with it, and so Reuenthal was left to sit alone in the waiting room for Leigh to get out of surgery.

After everyone stopped needing him, Reuenthal stepped into the too-bright single occupancy waiting room bathroom, and stared at his own reflection in the streaky mirror. Leigh’s blood was still all over his shirt, and when he looked at his hands, it was still on them, too. He wouldn’t have been able to explain the impulse to anyone, but Reuenthal raised his hand to his mouth and licked the dried blood trapped in the cracks of his knuckles and in between his fingers, tasting the metallic remnants of it, looking at himself in the mirror as he did. 

Someone knocked on the door. Reuenthal jumped. “One moment,” Reuenthal called.

He ran the water as hot as it went and scrubbed his arms to the elbows, watching the water run pink, then clear. He splashed some water on his face, too, then dried with the scratchy paper towels.

The man who needed the bathroom looked at his blood-covered shirt with a horrified expression when Reuenthal left, and Reuenthal just stared back at him coldly.

It was several hours of boredom later that Leigh was finally cleared to go. He seemed a little disoriented, coming into the waiting room on crutches. Someone had taken all his clothes and given him clean hospital sweats. Reuenthal stood and offered to take the bag he was holding.

“Are you free?” Reuenthal asked.

“If you’re asking if I’ve been discharged, yes,” Leigh said. 

“I’ll call us a car.”

It was pitch black outside, a contrast to the too-harsh industrial lights of the waiting room, and Reuenthal flagged down a taxi, the wind whipping violently around his arm as he held it out into the street. Leigh’s hair fluttered around his face, and he shivered. If Reuenthal still had his jacket, he would have offered it to him.

The taxi’s headlights swam across their knees, and Reuenthal helped Leigh into the back seat. They rode in silence for a little while.

Almost hesitantly, Leigh said, “I’m sorry for making you waste your Saturday.”

Reuenthal glanced over at him. The streetlights and headlights from passing cars were dancing across his face, and he was looking out the window, or perhaps at his own reflection in the dark glass. “On the contrary,” Reuenthal said, “I’m grateful that your little accident allowed me to leave the party early. Sitting in a waiting room for a few hours is a small price to pay.”

“You weren’t enjoying it?”

Reuenthal didn’t want to answer that question, so he just said, “Mm,” and left it at that. Leigh didn’t press. 

“Regardless, I’m grateful for your help.” He seemed genuine.

Reuenthal could be genuine as well, if he wanted to be. “You’re welcome.”

When they arrived back at the IOA, Reuenthal walked Leigh up to his dorm room. The chance that Leigh would be ambushed on the walk between the entrance and his bed was small, but Reuenthal didn’t want to risk it.

Leigh fumbled with his keys when he tried to open his door, making a frustrated noise under his breath. The painkillers he had been given were probably still heavy in his system, and the dorm room locks were well known for being sticky. Reuenthal waited patiently, just leaning on the doorframe until Leigh got it open. When he finally did, Reuenthal got a glimpse inside his room. The place was filthy, with belongings scattered everywhere, clothes on the ground, bed completely unmade, and all the drawers of his desk flying open. “Did someone break in?”

“What?” Leigh asked.

“I see. You just live like this.”

Leigh shook his head slightly, then leaned on one crutch as he took his belongings from Reuenthal. “I guess I need to buy a new dress uniform,” he said. “Sorry that yours got ruined, too.”

“It’s fine.” Reuenthal didn’t move, still leaning on the doorframe. “Do you need anything?”

“I’m fine,” Leigh said. He gave a wry smile. “You probably don’t want to be seen with me any more than you already have been. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m a bit of a pariah.”

“A wolf should not be so concerned with the opinions of sheep.” Reuenthal had spent the boring hours in the waiting room thinking, and the behavior of his classmates had featured prominently. It disgusted him that they were unwilling to recognize Leigh as their better, which he clearly was.

Leigh continued to smile, and there was a funny note in his voice. “I think it’s less the sheep, and more the hunters with bows and arrows that we need to be concerned with, in this particular situation.” Reuenthal liked the use of 'we'.

He wasn’t wrong. “You should make more of an effort in the weekend physicals. And maybe take a night physical class, too. Then things like this would be less likely to happen.” If Leigh hadn’t been such a soft target, Ansbach and his crew would not have gone after him, at least not in this direct of a way, Reuenthal thought.

Leigh’s tone was exasperated. “Reuenthal, I don’t know if you know this, but I have a thirty class-hour schedule. I barely have time to sleep, let alone go take an archery class.”

“Archery wasn’t exactly what I was suggesting. Come to hand-to-hand with me. Tuesdays and Thursdays at six. I’m sure you can spare four hours a week.”

“What good would it do me?”

“It might save your life, getting more coordinated.”

Leigh was clearly inimical to the idea. “We’re studying to be officers, right?”

“Yes.”

“The minute an officer needs to engage in hand-to-hand combat, the battle is already lost.”

Reuenthal frowned. “Not everything that happens in life can be accurately simulated in the practicums, von Leigh.”

That, apparently, had been the right approach to take, because Leigh sighed. “Maybe when my leg heals.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Reuenthal said, feeling warm and victorious.

Leigh looked at him, not quite meeting his eyes, but considering him nonetheless. Reuenthal let himself be observed, not minding the sensation. 

“Why do you have such an interest in me? You’ve been staring at me since the day we arrived," Leigh said.

He was surprised by the question, and his surprise showed on his face. “So has everybody else,” he said, trying to deflect.

“You know what I mean,” Leigh said, frowning a little.

Reuenthal was afraid that he did. Or, not afraid precisely, but surprised to acknowledge that his thoughts about Leigh stretched back, in some form, to long before he had found him bleeding on the forest floor. Before, even, than the brief moment they had spoken in the hallway outside the practicum where they had faced each other. Reuenthal had seen Leigh at the convocation dinner, seen his head tilted back to the ceiling, seen his throat bared— vulnerable— and thought, “So, this is the number two.”

Reuenthal smiled. “I’m sure I do not. But isn’t it only natural for me to have an interest in my direct competition?”

Leigh’s voice was unexpectedly sharp. “I don’t care about rank.”

“You say that, and yet you stay number two.”

“Rank doesn’t mean anything,” Leigh said. The way he was looking at Reuenthal made it seem like he was asking Reuenthal to understand something important, and he wasn’t sure if Reuenthal would. If he didn’t, he would be disappointed. “Not everything worthwhile about a person as a leader can be summed up in a number. Bittenfeld will be a better commander than I will. He has the right kind of charisma.”

A sudden spike of annoyance flashed in Reuenthal’s mind, Bittenfeld’s face and mess of red hair suddenly taking on a grating quality in his memory. “Oh? Are you saying I should be jealous of Bittenfeld?”

Leigh shifted at Reuenthal’s sudden change in tone. He shook his head. “No. I’m talking about my own personal failings.”

Reuenthal relaxed a fraction. “I don’t think the way you are is a failing.”

There was a moment of silence, and they looked at each other. “Do you want to come in?” Leigh asked, voice half hesitant.

Reuental considered it for a moment, and then decided that whatever was happening here, it was best not to push. “Maybe some other time, von Leigh,” he said. “You should get some rest.” His tone was warm, as warm as he could make it, when he said, “I’ll see you around.”

Leigh sounded more confused than disappointed. “Sure. See you,” he said. Reuenthal nodded curtly, the strode off down the hallway, feeling Leigh’s eyes on his back as he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ all catholics, please say a decade of the rosary and a prayer to st sebastian, to guard against plague in this, the year of our lord 2k20
> 
> @ all gays, please just go appreciate some gay paintings of saint sebastian b/c gay paintings of st sebastian are really good.
> 
> @ all gay catholics. let’s all appreciate the choice in carrie (1976) to put a statue of st sebastian instead of jesus in carrie’s weird prayer closet. unfortunately, at the end of this fic, hank von leigh does not develop psychic powers and burn the IOA down. that would be funny, though. if you want to read stories about gays with psychic powers, you’ll have to read my original fiction (shameless plug: bit.ly/shadowofheaven )
> 
> @ everybody else. well. hello. nice to meet you. glad you could join me here.
> 
> is that blink and you miss it foreshadowing?
> 
> Oskar ‘problems’ von Reuenthal is... hmm... hmmmm.
> 
> thank you to lydia for the beta read!


	4. There is Comfort at the Bottom of a Swimming Pool

_ November 475 I.C., Odin _

Things were different from that point on. The next day, Reuenthal found Leigh at dinner and sat down across from him. It was, perhaps, the first time that anyone had sat to eat with Leigh all year. And so they were friends.

This friendship between Leigh and Reuenthal drove a rift through the top students in the freshmen class. Those who had thought that Reuenthal was “on their side” against the foreign enemy represented by Leigh were suddenly confronted with the reality that Reuenthal had never been with them. The freshmen accordingly sorted themselves into two camps: those who considered Reuenthal tainted by association with Leigh, and those who did not.

Reuenthal thought this actually improved the atmosphere of the freshmen class somewhat, not that he particularly cared, but it meant that he never had to waste much time talking to people he had found unpleasant even before.

And it wasn’t as though Ansbach, Gautier, Dietch, and their allies could actually do anything about Reuenthal. He and Leigh remained untouchable at the top of the class, and Reuenthal was competent enough in the physicals that no one was eager to pick a fight with him. Wisely, they seemed to understand that picking a fight with Leigh would also mean picking a fight with Reuenthal, so he was, for the most part, left alone. Physically, at least.

Leigh’s leg healed relatively quickly, which Leigh grumbled about, because it meant he stopped being excused from weekend physicals after being cleared by one of the campus doctors.

“There are just so many better things I could be doing with my weekend mornings, you know?” Leigh muttered as they walked out of Monday’s last class together.

“Such as?”

“Sleeping, for one. But aside from that, I do have actual work to do.”

“You should drop history,” Reuenthal suggested. The sun was already going down as they trudged across campus, pulling their jackets up over their chins to protect a little from the wind. It wasn’t yet cold enough to break out their winter gear, but it was chilly enough to be uncomfortable.

“Reuenthal, if you’re honestly suggesting I drop the one subject I actually like in order to have more time for going to the gym, I think you’ve fundamentally misunderstood me as a person.”

“Luckily, you don’t actually have to make time for the physicals, since they’re required.”

Leigh rolled his eyes. “Unfortunate, that.”

“You said you were going to make more of an effort. And that you’d come to hand to hand with me.”

Leigh looked at him, maybe hearing the resignation in Reuenthal’s tone. “Do you really want me to come?”

“I do.”

“If you insist,” Leigh said. 

And so he did, following Reuenthal the next day to his hand-to-hand class. It was far less formal than the weekend physicals, and so Reuenthal was allowed to partner with Leigh, walking him through some of the very basic exercises. Beyond his initial grumbling from the day before, Leigh was a willing student. He watched Reuenthal with a keen eye when he demonstrated anything.

Reuenthal wished that he could say that Leigh was intentionally doing things wrong so that Reuenthal would have excuses to correct his form, but he suspected that Leigh was just as bad as he seemed. Still, Reuenthal didn’t turn down the opportunity to put a hand on Leigh’s back, or lift his elbow, or push on his shoulder to move him into a better position. Leigh’s body was soft, warm, and pliable beneath Reuenthal’s hands, and if his touch ever lingered too long, Leigh never said anything about it. 

Partnering with Leigh meant that Reuenthal was not getting the vigorous workout that he had come to expect from the hand-to-hand class, but that was a small price to pay. Of course, Reuenthal soon realized that these classes with Leigh left him filled with a burning energy that he had no way to satisfy, and that would leave him unable to focus on schoolwork, or even sleep, should he return to his dorm afterwards. Usually, he and Leigh went their own ways after class, Leigh mumbling something about having homework to do, and Reuenthal remaining in the huge athletic complex to find some other way of exhausting himself, so he didn’t have to think about anything.

One Thursday, though, Leigh didn’t leave in his usual brusque fashion after class let out. He hesitated in the hallway, which made Reuenthal stop and not walk away.

“I’ve been wondering,” Leigh began, scratching the back of his head in the funny way he sometimes did. “I was looking for you on Tuesday night— I wanted to ask your opinion on my practicum paper— and I couldn’t find you. Where do you always go after class?”

Reuenthal looked at Leigh. “Swimming, usually,” he said. After a beat of hesitation, he added, “You’re welcome to join me.”

Leigh’s lips turned down in a minute, nervous frown. “No, I couldn’t,” he said.

Reuenthal shrugged. He wasn’t going to press Leigh on this. “Suit yourself,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Leigh nodded, so Reuenthal started to walk off down the hallway. Leigh didn’t move for a minute, until Reuenthal was at the big doors at the end of the hall, pushing them open with his shoulder. Leigh came jogging after him.

Reuenthal didn’t say anything, not wanting to accidentally scare Leigh off, and just led him down the winding hallways, the smell of chlorine growing thicker in the air as they approached the pool. Reuenthal skirted around the main doors, though Leigh glanced at them, making a surprised face when he saw that the pool’s posted hours ended at seven, which was about an hour ago. Reuenthal instead went through the locker room, the main door of which was unlocked for bathroom access. He kept a locker in there, locked with a combination lock, and he fiddled with it as Leigh watched him.

The locker room was silent and deserted, aside from the two of them, so the clanging metal of the locker bouncing open echoed. 

“You want to swim?” Reuenthal asked.

Leigh shook his head. Reuenthal would have offered him his swim trunks if he had— he kept both a heavy pair and his racing suit in the locker. His high school coach had always made them train with higher-drag suits, even making them wear cotton tee shirts in the pool, to increase the resistance. That all seemed like so long ago, now, but the habit of keeping both in his locker remained.

As Reuenthal fiddled around with his locker, Leigh walked away, and Reuenthal heard the doors to the bathroom area clatter shut. He took that opportunity to change into his suit, and was folding his towel over his arm by the time that Leigh returned, shaking sink water off his hands.

He wasn’t looking at Reuenthal when he said, “How are you going to get into the pool? Isn’t it locked after hours?”

Reuenthal dug around in his bag and produced a bobby pin, which he held up silently. Leigh raised his eyebrows. Together, they walked through the back of the locker room, where there was an alternate entrance to the pool deck. Reuenthal picked the lock easily, and the door swung open.

“We’re not going to get in trouble, are we?”

“Were you planning on doing something that would get us in trouble?” Reuenthal asked.

“Aside from following you in here? No.”

“Then no, I don’t think anyone cares,” Reuenthal said. He pointed to a camera up in the corner of the room. “If I was going to get in trouble, I already would have.”

Reuenthal was pretty sure that he had actually been seen by several of the building staff, at one point, but no one had ever stopped him. 

“Perks of being first, is it?”

“Probably,” Reuenthal said. He tossed his bag and towel onto the metal bleachers, then stretched a little, watching Leigh very carefully not watch him. There was a reason he had pointed out the camera to Leigh: it would not be a good idea to do anything that could get them in trouble here, even if the temptation was very strong. He didn’t want to prove his father right by ending up embroiled in a scandal and kicked out within his first semester.

The pool was long, and the room was hot and cavernous, the lights half-off. Every sound seemed to echo and bounce off the still water.

Leigh took a seat on the bleachers, pulling one knee up to his chest while the other twisted underneath him. He watched Reuenthal climb the block, and Reuenthal glanced back at Leigh for a second as he curled his fingers around the rough fiberglass edge of the diving block. Their eyes met, and Reuenthal’s lips twisted up in a half smile.

“Tell me to go,” he said. His heart was pounding for no reason at all.

Leigh shook his head, black hair flopping in his eyes, but then said, “On your mark, get set, go!”

When Reuenthal had first learned to swim, he had hated the sensation of jumping off the side of the pool. He didn’t like that single moment that hovered in the middle of being on the ground and being in the water— the moment after moving in a way that was irrevocable. The air was the threshold that he had to cross. Now, though, he liked that instant of pushing off the block, arms swinging out in front of him so that he could arch into the water like a knife. He held his breath, blew bubbles out of his nose, staying underwater until he was more than halfway across the pool.

The water was frigid, and the chlorine stung his eyes— he wasn’t wearing his goggles— and the sound of his own breath and movement in his ears was enough to ground him, to stop him from thinking of Leigh watching him from the sidelines. He turned underwater, pushed off the wall, swam back.

He was making good time, but he wasn’t racing, and Leigh wasn’t timing him. 

Reuenthal swam a two hundred before he stopped, leaning his arms on the edge of the pool, looking up at Leigh, who looked down at him.

“I’d compliment you,” Leigh said, “but I have no idea if you’re good or not, so I wouldn’t want you to think I was lying if I ended up making the wrong guess.”

Reuenthal chuckled a little. “I’m fine. I used to compete. I was top in my school, but only better than average at the district level.” He shrugged.

“Really?”

“Why are you surprised?”

“I don’t know,” Leigh said, scratching his head. “I’m not, I guess. It just seems like the thing to say.”

Reuenthal shook his head. “It was something to do.”

“You like it, though.” Was that true? Reuenthal didn’t actually know.

“The same way I like SW class,” Reuenthal said. “Sure.”

"Yeah," Leigh said. "I get that."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You like to swim?"

Leigh shook his head vigorously.

"Too good to get wet?" Reuenthal asked.

"I just never have," Leigh said. "Pretty sure I'd drown." And now Reuenthal noticed the suspicion with which Leigh was looking at the still surface of the water, as though at any moment it could reach out and grab him.

"They don't have water on Phezzan?"

Leigh opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

"What?" Reuenthal asked.

"It's not like I spent that much time on the planet," Leigh finally said in a rush.

"Oh?"

"I was mostly on my dad's ship."

Reuenthal raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know that."

Leigh rubbed the back of his head, clearly nervous, though Reuenthal couldn't see why. "Yeah," Leigh said. "Anyway, no, I've never been in anything bigger than a bathtub in my life."

"I'm jealous," Reuenthal said.

"Of my inability to swim?"

"No, of going to space. I've never left Odin."

"It's not that exciting, I promise," Leigh said. "You get used to it." He frowned a little. "My dad always used to say, if something is exciting, something is wrong."

Reuenthal was enjoying this look into Leigh's life. It was clear that Leigh would not give this information to anyone else, so he was savoring it. 

"Do you miss being on a ship?"

Leigh let out a little huff of breath. "No," he said, then looked away. "But I do miss my dad."

Reuenthal dipped back underneath the water, pushing off the wall and rocketing away. He swam a few laps of butterfly, sprinting, until he cleared his head again. Being reminded that he and Leigh had nothing in common was a strange and bitter sensation. It should have been obvious, just from looking at him, but Reuenthal had managed to somehow forget.

He returned to the wall in front of Leigh, out of breath this time. Leigh didn't say anything, and so the sound of Reuenthal's breathing traveled far across the water.

"You should learn to swim," Reuenthal said.

"No point."

“I’m sure physicals will involve it sometime,” Reuenthal said. “And when they do, what will you do? Drown?”

Leigh made a face. “I’d just skip them.”

“How many demerits can you afford before you drop out of second place?”

“An infinite number,” Leigh said. “Trust me on that one.” The tone in Leigh’s voice was so weirdly resigned that Reuenthal did.

“If you say so. But you should still learn.”

“Now?”

The rough texture of the pool deck under his arms and the water gently sloshing around his sides took on a heightened quality in Reuenthal’s mind, like they were burning him. “Sure,” he said, very casually. “If you want.”

Leigh considered it for a long second, looking out across the still water of the pool. The lights glittered on the surface, and the lines painted on the bottom seemed to warp and shift. Finally Leigh nodded.

“There’s an extra pair of swim trunks in my locker,” Reuenthal said, then told him the combination. Leigh just nodded again and vanished into the locker room.

The whole point of coming swimming had been to get his mind off of Leigh, but that was clearly not happening. Not that Reuenthal minded. He was frustrated by the presence of the cameras, though, wishing that he could be totally unobserved. That was impossible, of course.

Leigh took a while to get changed, to the point where Reuenthal wondered if he had just decided to leave instead. He wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. While Reuenthal was waiting, he swam, counting the time in numbers of laps— he was very consistent and knew his pace well.

Leigh emerged from the locker room when Reuenthal was in the middle of a lap, and it took until he made it back to the deep end of the pool to notice that Leigh was there and watching him. Reuenthal stopped, treading water easily. He looked at Leigh, with that same lingering, evaluating gaze that he always did. Leigh stood there under the scrutiny, rubbing the back of his head, seemingly more interested in the glinting of light on water than he was in Reuenthal.

Leigh had an average build, without much definition to his arms, and skinny legs. His chest had a bit of a dent in the middle, not noticeable when he was wearing a shirt, but visible now. Sparse, dark hair covered his forearms and legs. Now that he was barefoot, Reuenthal noticed that he was standing on the balls of his feet, his toes curled, heels hovering off the ground, like he was mid run, despite standing still. There wasn’t one specific thing about Leigh that Reuenthal could have pointed to that made him so interesting, but the gestalt of him captured Reuenthal’s attention like no one ever had.

“Well?” Reuenthal asked. “Are you going to get in?”

Leigh was startled to hear him speak, after that moment of silent contemplation. “Oh, er, I guess.” He sat down on the edge of the pool, stuck his legs in timidly, then cringed at the temperature of the water.

“You get used to it,” Reuenthal said. “It’s easier if you just get in.”

Gingerly, Leigh lowered himself into the pool, clinging to the wall.

“It helps if you kick,” Reuenthal said. “But don’t tense up; that won’t help you float.”

“Okay,” Leigh said. The goosebumps were visible on his arms, and he didn’t relax at all.

Reuenthal decided that actually teaching Leigh to do a stroke would probably be a little ambitious, but he could at least teach him to float, so that he didn’t drown immediately after letting go of the wall.

He had thought that he had grown used to the feeling of being more physically adept than Leigh, after he had found him bleeding in the woods of Neue Sanssouci, and after hours of partnering with him during hand-to-hand class where Leigh was barely passable at even the basic exercises, but this was different. New, at least, and it brought the feeling back to the forefront of Reuenthal’s mind.

Reuenthal was willing to admit that Leigh was his superior academically, even if their class ranks didn’t reflect that. When he read over Leigh’s game transcripts (which he always did, with just as much fervor as the other students, though for different reasons,) he realized that Leigh made moves with economy, foresight, and creativity that he himself lacked. There were things that Leigh did, maybe instinctually, Reuenthal didn’t know, that set him up to win, without his opponent ever noticing that the floor had fallen out from underneath him. Reuenthal could pick these maneuvers apart in hindsight, but when he put himself in Leigh’s shoes, he knew he would have never made the same choices. He almost certainly would have still won those matches Leigh was playing against the other students (after all, they were both undefeated), but Leigh’s solutions had an elegance that Reuenthal admired.

Being in a position where he had the obvious superiority was a strange and unnatural feeling. There was a part of him that wished that Leigh was his equal or better here, as well, but perhaps if that was the case, something different would have been lost. 

“Here,” Reuenthal said. “Let go of the wall, then just spread your arms out and tilt your head back. You should float.”

Leigh gave it an honest attempt, but his arms were too stiff, and he didn’t quite lean back enough, and he started to sink, which caused him to flail and grab the wall. “What are you trying to get me to do?” Leigh asked, audibly frustrated. “I don’t think humans were meant to be in the water.”

“I’m trying to get you to float on your back,” Reuenthal said. “It’s the first thing anybody learns when they’re swimming.”

Leigh made a face. “I seem to just be sinking.”

“You can do it.”

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

Reuenthal frowned. “Do you need me to show you?”

“Yeah,” Leigh said. “Show me.”

The command spurred Reuenthal into action, and he moved away from the wall slightly, enough that he wouldn’t accidentally bump into Leigh. He easily kicked his legs up and laid back on the water, spreading his arms and floating. Of all the parts of swimming, Reuenthal liked backstroke, and being on his back, the least. He had always felt very exposed and vulnerable, and unable to see where he was going. He still felt that way now, but the feeling of Leigh’s eyes on him intensified that vulnerability, and at the same time, turned it on its head. He lay there, silent in the water, for some time before turning his head to look at Leigh. They made eye contact for a second, then Leigh looked away, and Reuenthal righted himself in the water.

“Like that,” he said.

“You don’t have to do anything?”

“Just let the water hold you up,” Reuenthal said. “Try it.”

Tentatively, Leigh let go of the wall, trying to get himself into the right position. He wasn’t leaning back right, so he was just slipping down into the water. Reuenthal intervened. Under the water, he put his hand on the small of Leigh’s back and pushed up, gently raising him to the surface.

Leigh made a sound that might have been a laugh of surprise, but his breathing was irregular and shallow.

“Relax,” Reuenthal said. “You’re not going to drown.”

With his other hand, Reuenthal pushed Leigh’s shoulder down, so that his body was approximately flat on the surface of the water. When it seemed as though Leigh had mostly figured it out, Reuenthal pulled his hands away, letting Leigh float unassisted.

He had figured it out. Leigh’s head was back, hair drifting in the water. His mouth was slightly open, and his breathing had evened out a little bit. He looked up at the ceiling, and Reuenthal wanted to touch his neck, or his face, but then he glanced up at the camera on the ceiling and didn’t, keeping his hands at his sides while he silently and easily tread water next to Leigh. 

It seemed as though they could have stayed there forever.

“You were right,” Leigh said after a long moment.

“About what?” Reuenthal’s voice was low and quiet, almost afraid to disrupt the relative serenity of the pool.

“You do get used to it,” Leigh said. “I’m not cold anymore.”

“Oh. Good.”

“You can get used to pretty much anything, I guess.” He didn’t seem uncomfortable or self conscious, floating there, talking. 

“Oh?” Reuenthal asked. “What else are you getting used to?”

Leigh was silent for a second. “All of this,” he said. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t grow up drinking the water here, breathing the air,” Leigh said, hesitating, as though he was struggling to put something into words. “I took the IOA exam as a joke. I never expected—“ He paused. “But now I’m here.”

“You are.”

“And I’m used to it.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“If you had asked me a year ago, I would have said yes,” Leigh said. 

“But now?” Reuenthal watched the slow rise and fall of Leigh’s chest.

“I don’t know,” Leigh said. “It’s dangerous, isn’t it?” And he turned his head to look at Reuenthal, eyes wide.

Reuenthal glanced again at the camera on the ceiling again. “You think I’m dangerous, Hank?” It was the first time he had called Leigh by his first name, and it made Leigh’s lips twitch in something like a smile.

“Maybe,” Leigh said. He let out a rueful laugh. “But maybe I’m more dangerous to you.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I’m a foreign influence, aren’t I? That’s dangerous.”

“I don’t care,” Reuenthal said, voice hard and assured.

“I know,” Leigh said. He looked at the ceiling again, all the cross beams tangling across the roof like a spiderweb. “We’re the same, I think.”

Reuenthal was silent, waiting for Leigh to continue.

“It’s not you that I’m scared of getting used to,” Leigh said. “It’s everything else. You drink the water long enough, and it becomes part of you, you know? And I keep waking up in the middle of the night and thinking…”

“Thinking what?”

“Everything’s rotten here,” Leigh said. “To the core.”

Reuenthal nodded, but Leigh wasn’t looking at him.

“And what if I get so used to that, if I let it all inside of me, and I start to think that everything I loved before is evil, and everything I hated before is good?”

“I don’t think you’ll change your nature.”

“I might.”

“Nothing’s changed mine.”

Leigh was hesitant. “True.”

“You’re still warm,” Reuenthal said. “Even if the water’s cold.” And he couldn’t resist, and touched Leigh’s shoulder with his fingertips. Leigh shivered at his touch, so violently that he broke his float, and he grabbed for the wall, hoisting himself out of the pool.

“I can’t swim,” he said, looking at Reuenthal, half breathless and wide eyed. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Reuenthal didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded. Leigh practically ran back to the locker room, scattering droplets of water behind him as he went, and leaving a trail of damp footprints on the concrete floor.

Reuenthal stopped kicking his legs and let out all of his breath, dropping like a stone to the bottom of the pool, where he sat until he couldn’t bear the strain in his lungs any longer. The water roared in his ears and burned his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: https://youtu.be/uRmaIYbLWho
> 
> I love characters whose symbolic element is water who cannot swim and have never even been submerged. like yes, your personality is so liquid <3 yes you will drown if you look at the ocean the wrong way <3
> 
> This scene exists because of the conversation that takes place in chapter three of Servants of the Pharaoh (again, this makes sense to people who have been reading in posting order. to those reading in chronological order, you’ll get there lol). That conversation is metaphorical. Here is a literal scene to accompany it. <3 miscommunication
> 
> Thank you Lydia for the beta read :3c


	5. The Last Night of the First Year of Oskar von Reuenthal’s Life

_ December 475 I.C., Odin _

Leigh and Reuenthal were sitting in Joseph's, the closest bar to campus, and while theoretically they had come to celebrate finishing the end of semester exams, the atmosphere was less celebratory and more studious. Reuenthal had stolen a blank copy of the strategic theory exam that they had just left, a thick booklet crammed with maps and diagrams, and he had spread it out on the table for them to pore over.

Bittenfeld had come with them to the bar, happy to partake in "celebration", but as soon as Reuenthal started pulling out paper after paper, he had rolled his eyes and found some juniors to challenge at darts. Reuenthal couldn't say he minded his absence, as it let him and Leigh take up the whole booth with their analysis.

Leigh always sat funny. Today, he was sideways in the booth, his right elbow supporting his whole upper body as he twisted onto the table, his legs crossed and his feet up on the cracked leather booth. He always seemed dangerously close to knocking over the beer by his hand, but he never quite did.

"I think you were thinking of this too much like an SW game," Leigh was saying. He tapped a pen idly on the sheaf of papers. "You need to broaden your idea of what 'winning' looks like here."

"Oh?" Reuenthal asked. It was somewhat rare that they discussed tactics so openly. Usually they just read each other's papers and tried to silently understand what their friend was thinking, and, in Reuenthal's case, how to use that to beat Leigh.

"Sure, you could put absolutely everything you have into holding the planet, but I don't think that needs to be your goal."

Reuenthal frowned. "It's what you're stationed there to do."

Leigh nodded. "But what is a planet except for a place where people live? It's better to evacuate the civilian population first--"

"What if there's too many to evacuate?"

"There's not," Leigh said. "This is a tiny border planet, which is why it was targeted in the first place. This would never happen around Odin, or wherever else with more than a million or so inhabitants."

"So you want to just evacuate?"

Leigh made a contemplative noise. "Not necessarily."

"What do you propose, then?"

"Evacuate first, just to prevent loss of life. Have your forces put up a good fight, stall, try to wear down the enemy, but as soon as you start taking big hits, retreat."

"Okay," Reuenthal said. "I can understand that is preferable to losing most of your forces, but it still looks like a loss."

"It would be, in an SW game, if you cut the time there with the retreat. But you don't have to." Leigh drew a long, looping shape on the paper in front of them. "Let them get comfortable. You still have most of your force. Now, they want to hold the planet, and can't easily retreat. You have better positioning and can wear them down. Especially if you can wait for reinforcements."

Reuenthal nodded. "That's not what they're looking to hear, though."

"Let them fail me, then," Leigh said. "I don't care." He picked up his beer and drank.

An, "I care," was on the verge of coming out of Reuenthal's mouth when he saw someone deeply unpleasant approaching. Ansbach strode up to their booth. He was perhaps already drunk, because he usually wasn't so eager to annoy Reuenthal.

"The calculus exam grades were posted," Ansbach said. "It's good to know that you'll be flunking out sooner, rather than later, Leigh."

"Oh, how badly did I do?" Leigh asked, not really looking at Ansbach. His tone was curious and mild, as though Ansbach (or one of Ansbach’s friends) hadn't once tried to murder him in cold blood.

Ansbach glanced at Reuenthal, surprised by Leigh's indifference, as if expecting Reuenthal to also have an opinion on the exchange. Reuenthal glared coldly at him. "Bottom ten percent," Ansbach said after a second. "Pretty pathetic showing."

"Did I pass?" Leigh asked. "I hope I don't have to retake it."

In order to preempt Ansbach's answer, Reuenthal took out his phone and scrolled to the latest exam grade postings. "Yes," he said. "You passed."

"Oh, good," Leigh said. "That's fine, then."

Ansbach looked disgusted, his lip curling up into a sneer. "Deitch will have your spot," he said.

Leigh shrugged. "He can have it."

"No, he won't," Reuenthal said. "Not until he can win in the practicum."

Ansbach ignored Reuenthal. "Everyone's looking for an excuse to get rid of you, you know. Flunking math is going to get you kicked out."

"Let them look," Leigh said. He spread his hands. "If I've stuck around thus far, I don't think--"

"Barely,"Ansbach said. "You're lucky. But you won't always be." And he glanced at Reuenthal again.

"Are you implying something, Ansbach?" Reuenthal asked. "Because if you don't want to become unlucky yourself, I'd advise you keep your mouth shut."

"I don't understand why you're letting him drag you down."

Leigh laughed aloud, an incongruous sound for the vicious tone of the conversation. Both Reuenthal and Ansbach looked at him, startled. Leigh took a sip of his beer, then gestured at Reuenthal. "If I was dragging him down, he wouldn't be first."

"There are more ways of having status than just class rank," Ansbach said. "And being  _ involved _ with you--" Ansbach narrowed his eyes, then turned and walked away. Reuenthal glared at him as he left, wanting to punch the man.

Leigh seemed unaffected and continued to placidly drink his beer. "Calm down," he said to Reuenthal. "He's not going to do anything."

Reuenthal scowled. "If he does, he's dead."

Leigh pursed his lips. "Not worth it, you know." He finished his beer.

"It wouldn't be?" Reuenthal asked. He lowered his voice. "You could have died."

"And if I had?" Leigh's face was contemplative. "Reuenthal, you…" He trailed off for a second, trying to put things into words. "In the future, you know, you're going to go far. You'll have real power to shape the world. Don't throw that away here, even if something happened."

"I don't subscribe to the fantasy of the best revenge being living well."

"I'm not talking about that," Leigh said. "I mean someday, in twenty years, you're going to have power, if you don't throw your life away on--" he hesitated-- "something stupid. You and I, we both want…" Leigh shook his head. "All I'm saying is that you have chances that I don't, so you need to use them. Don't waste your life on a schoolyard spat, or on petty revenge."

"You could have power, too," Reuenthal said.

Leigh chuckled and finished his beer. "No, I doubt it. The world is full of people like Ansbach, and I think--" again, that hesitation-- "there probably will be a time when I step a little too far out of line." He smiled at Reuenthal. "But let's not worry about it."

Reuenthal couldn't help but frown at that. He looked across the bar at Ansbach, who was ordering a drink and ignoring him. "Shall we go?" Reuenthal asked.

"Of course," Leigh said. He started gathering all their papers as Reuenthal went to pay the tab.

It was snowing and dark when they headed out of the bar, Leigh needing to focus quite hard on avoiding ice patches in front of them. They walked in silence for a little while, but then Reuenthal said, “You should want power, too, Leigh.”

Leigh laughed. “Wanting things you can’t have is only going to give you a headache. Besides, I’m not interested in power.”

“Why not?”

Snow was settling softly in Leigh’s black hair, glittering white as they passed underneath the streetlights. Reuenthal wanted nothing more in that moment than to run his hands through Leigh’s hair, warm and soft. “I don’t have the right kind of ambition,” Leigh said. “You know that.”

“Having the wrong kind of ambition doesn’t preclude you from gaining power. It shouldn’t anyway. Not if you’re careful,” Reuenthal said. “You said that I could.”

Leigh nodded. “It’s different between us, though. Nobody suspects…” He shrugged. “I’m already half a traitor in their minds, while you’re the savior of the freshman class. Respectable. It’s different.”

“You could prove them wrong,” Reuenthal said. “You should.”

“It seems unlikely,” Leigh said. “Besides, I don’t need or want power. I don’t think I’d like having it.”

Reuenthal was silent for a moment. “Having power would mean no one could make you do things against your nature.”

“You sound like my dad.”

“Really?”

“He always said that having money would mean you don’t have to listen to other people,” Leigh said with a laugh. “It’s probably true, to an extent.”

“You’ve changed the subject.”

“No,” Leigh said. He looked up into the sky, and snowflakes landed on his eyelashes. “I just think that the pursuit of power is the kind of thing that ruins people.”

“Do you think it would ruin me?” Reuenthal asked. “If that’s your only reason?”

“I trust you,” Leigh said. He closed his eyes. “Maybe that’s dangerous.”

“And what do you trust me to do?” They were about to round a street corner and bring themselves back into view of the IOA, so Reuenthal stopped and waited for Leigh’s answer while they were still nearly invisible in the darkness on the empty street.

Leigh was quiet. “It’s not something you can say. I think you will know what you have to do. When it comes to it.”

The snow was curling around them through the air, and their breath was rising in clouds. Reuenthal did reach out then and brush some of the snow off of Leigh’s hair. Leigh shivered. “I suppose we’ll find out, when that time comes,” Reuenthal said, his voice very low.

Leigh nodded, and Reunthal started walking again, rounding the corner back onto campus.

When they made it back to the freshman dorms, Leigh started to turn towards the lounge, but Reuenthal gestured for him to follow him instead to his room.

For all that they spent most of their time together, Leigh hadn’t been in Reuenthal’s room before. He didn’t hesitate at all at the doorway, though, and just wandered in when Reuenthal held the door open, looking around with his usual open expression. Reuenthal kept his room clean, with just a few pieces of art on the walls, and a selection of trinkets on the hutch above his desk: a piece of driftwood he had collected from a school trip to the coast, a huge chunk of copper and pyrite rock that Count Mariendorf had given him, and a small bronze cast figure of a kneeling archer that he had acquired when his paternal grandfather died. 

Leigh was looking at one of the prints on the wall, studying it. The painting showed a young man, maybe in his twenties, seated in front of drapes decorated with the Goldenbaum crest. He was sitting casually on an elaborate throne, and he had a weird expression on his face, a knowing half-smile. Hidden among the drapes, almost invisible, was the hand and forearm of someone else, obscured from view.

“Why do you have a picture of Kaiser Kaspar on your wall?” Leigh asked. His tone was confused and curious.

There certainly was a reason for it, and Reuenthal was somewhat surprised that Leigh wasn’t picking up on it. But if Leigh didn’t already know, Reuenthal couldn’t exactly explain that Kaiser Kaspar was a homosexual. It would defeat the purpose. “It’s a nice picture. Am I not allowed to have a favorite kaiser?”

Leigh laughed. “I suppose, as favorites go, you could do worse. He abdicated before he could cause any trouble. That’s about the best we can hope for.”

Reuenthal just shook his head, his weird smile matching the painting’s. Leigh gave up on looking at the picture, deciding he wouldn’t find any meaning in it, and sat on top of Reuenthal’s desk. Reuenthal looked askance at this, and Leigh said, “I won’t knock anything down, I promise.”

So Reuenthal sat on his bed.

“I can’t believe it’s already been a semester,” Leigh said. “You’re going home for winter break, right?”

“I suppose,” Reuenthal said, lips pursed. Leigh tilted his head, giving Reuenthal the space to elaborate, but Reuenthal chose not to. “Are you?”

“What?”

“Going home. To Phezzan.”

“Oh, no,” Leigh said.

“Your father isn’t going to be near the planet?”

Leigh looked away, letting out a huff of breath that might have been a humorless laugh. “No, I mean, he’s dead. I guess I thought you knew that.”

“I’m sorry,” Reuenthal said.

“It’s okay,” Leigh said. “I mean, it’s not, but there’s nothing that can be done about it, so…”

“When did he die?”

“April.”

“Oh,” Reuenthal said. “Just before you came here, then.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t have, if he didn’t—“ Leigh shook his head. “It’s so stupid. All of it.”

“What do you mean?”

Leigh held out his hands, as though he was weighing something. “I wish he was alive. I almost wish I was somewhere else, studying history, maybe. He would have paid for me to go to—“ A weird moment of hesitation again— “Phezzan National University. But he’s dead, and now I’m here. And I’m not— I’m glad to be here.” He laughed a little. “I can’t believe— he gave me permission to study history, instead of business or art, and this isn’t really any of those things. I mean, it’s history, but it’s more…”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Thanks,” Leigh said, looking up at Reuenthal and meeting his eyes. “It’s funny that he wanted me to be a businessman, or an artist, and I wanted to be an academic, but I’m going to be a soldier.” He shook his head. “Weird.”

“You’re well suited to it.”

“Yeah, I never would have expected that. Did you ever think you would be doing something different?”

Reuenthal shrugged. “If I hadn’t gotten into the IOA, I would have enlisted.”

“Hunh. Why?”

Reuenthal shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Okay.” Leigh picked up on his desire to not say anything about the subject. “Do you live far from here?”

“Outside the capital,” Reuenthal said. “Not too far.”

“Oh, good,” Leigh said. 

“Why do you say that?”

“Maybe I could visit you over break.”

“No,” Reuenthal said, and his tone must have been a little harsh, because Leigh blinked in surprise, shifting on the desk. “I’ll be busy,” Reuenthal lied. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I guess I’ll have a chance to get caught up on schoolwork. Do some reading.”

“You seem to be adept at entertaining yourself,” Reuenthal said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Or I might just hibernate all break. Like a bear.”

Reuenthal chuckled. “Maybe. ”

They talked about other things, then, and time got away from them. It was the sudden release from their class schedule, and relief of being free from any looming exams that allowed them this freedom. Later, Reuenthal wouldn’t have been able to say what exactly they talked about— history, maybe, and tactics, probably, and books that both of them had read, or other mundane matters. It wasn’t the details that were important, but the feeling that the conversation could go on so naturally, and forever.

They talked long into the night, and longer, neither of them aware of the time until the first rays of sun began to shine through the narrow window, glinting off the snow on the ground outside.

“Jeeze,” Leigh said, rubbing his head. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“Early,” Reuenthal corrected.

“Good thing we don’t have physicals.”

“Would you go to them if we did?”

Leigh laughed, which turned into a yawn. “Only if you made me.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t, though,” Leigh said. He stood and stretched. “I’m gonna go take a nap. I probably won’t wake up until noon.”

There was a moment before Leigh reached for the door that Reuenthal considered asking him to stay, but Leigh did seem like he was ready to fall asleep, so Reuenthal let the moment pass.

“See you at lunch, then?” Reuenthal asked.

“If I sleep through it, no, but dinner, for sure,” Leigh said with a smile. He met Reuenthal’s eyes. He had such nice eyes, Reuenthal thought. “You should get some sleep, too.”

“I will,” Reuenthal said. 

After Leigh left, Reuenthal did try to sleep, but the sudden quiet of his dorm room disturbed him, and he couldn’t get Leigh’s face out of his mind.

* * *

Winter break was too long, Reuenthal decided. He had been dreading it, and now that it had arrived, he hated it.

His return home was anticlimactic. He hadn’t even told his father that he would be returning home, and he took a taxi so that he wouldn’t have to ask for a ride. His father must have noted his presence that first night, through seeing Reuenthal’s shoes in the hallway, or his coat on the hook in the closet. They didn’t speak to each other, though, and Reuenthal stayed in his room for as long as possible, only emerging for absolute necessities.

The first time his father spoke to him was on the third night, when Reuenthal could no longer ignore how hungry he was, having run out of food he had brought home with him.

He crept down to the kitchen, then looked through the nearly barren cupboards and fridge to find anything he could bring back up to his room. There was a dusty can of creamed corn in one cupboard, and Reuenthal decided that was better than nothing. There were some crackers, too, and a bag of apples in the fridge that Reuenthal was sure had been there since the summer, but still looked unrotted, so he took two, tucking them into his pockets. He was searching for the can opener when he heard his father’s footsteps behind him. Reuenthal very deliberately shut the drawer he was looking through before turning.

His father looked the same as he always had, dull blue eyes recessed in his face, and thin, pinched lips. “School made you too good to speak to me?” his father asked.

“No, sir,” Reuenthal said.

“You aren’t back here because they kicked you out, are you?”

“No, sir. It’s the winter solstice.”

“Oh. Right.” His father glanced at the calendar on the kitchen wall. It must have just been out of habit, because it was several months out of date. “Today?”

“This Saturday.”

“Oh.”

His father opened the fridge and pulled out a can of beer. He held it up, questioningly, then looked at Reuenthal, who shrugged. His father tossed it at him, and Reuenthal caught it. If his father was in a good mood, Reuenthal didn’t trust it to last, but it was better than the alternative. 

“We’ll go visit your mother, then,” his father said. Reuenthal nodded. That was the tradition. He hadn’t really expected it not to continue.

His father stared at him for a long second, then shook his head and got another beer out of the fridge before turning and walking away.

Reuenthal didn’t let himself relax until he was back in his room, and he ate his cold can of corn and drank his beer as silently as possible.

* * *

Reuenthal and his father only ever went to temple a few times a year, like most people. The religion of the Empire didn’t require that much devotion from its followers, and so while the temples were packed on the solstices and equinoxes, and on a few other major holidays dedicated to specific gods, there wasn’t much impetus for people to attend services regularly. But this was the winter solstice on Odin, so the local temple was filled.

Reuenthal and his father were both dressed in black suits, and his father carried a bottle of wine and the heavy ceremonial coins they had exchanged earlier as sacrifices. Technically, the day of the solstice was a fast day, from sunup to sundown, and though Reuenthal hadn’t eaten, it wasn’t for religious reasons; it was just because there wasn’t any food in the house. His father had spent the day drinking, but was mostly sober now. He had driven them here, in any event, not turning on the autopilot of the car because he didn’t like it.

The sun was turning the sky a blistering red, and though it was frigid outside, the inside of the temple was sweltering hot. A bonfire was roaring at the front of the temple in the massive firepit beneath the statues of the gods, and the whole room was packed shoulder to shoulder with people. A heady combination of incense, woodsmoke, and sweat filled the air.

Just like he had when he had been a small child who might have wandered off and been lost in the crowd, Reuenthal’s father kept a grip on Reuenthal’s upper arm, his fingers digging into his skin, even with the fabric of his coat in the way.

The service itself was mostly boring, except for the sacrifice. Apparently, someone at the temple responsible for reading the portents had decided that a deer would be the most appropriate animal to sacrifice, though in past winters he had seen lambs and calves.

The deer, a doe, was obviously terrified, alternating between straining at its bonds and standing frozen in place, eyes wide. They glittered in the firelight, deep black with specks of gold as embers floated up and glinted. Reuenthal was transfixed as the deer was dragged up to the altar and held down by willing hands. 

He was lightheaded with hunger and with heat, and he felt like the deer was looking right at him, lifting its head to try to escape.

He was reminded of Leigh, of course, as the knife came down. Leigh, helpless. Leigh, bleeding out in the forest. Leigh, with wide, dark eyes. He wondered if his father could feel the way he tensed up next to him. 

When the deer was dead, everyone went up to the altar to give their sacrifices. The ceremonial coins were tossed into the fire; the bottles of wine were placed in front of whichever god they were being offered to. Reuenthal’s father usually just chose Odin, and Reuenthal followed behind him.

They passed by the altar. The deer’s throat was cut, and its head was thrown back, eyes open still, but dull now. Its blood trickled across the white stone. Almost without thinking, Reuenthal reached out and dragged a finger through the blood as he walked past. No one seemed to notice him doing this. Reuenthal clenched his hand into a fist, hiding the blood in his palm.

After the sacrifices had been given, Reuenthal and his father walked out of the temple, and, as usual, took the long path around the back, out towards the graveyard where Reuenthal’s mother was buried. She was buried in the von Reuenthal family plot, though Reuenthal didn’t know why. He suspected that his maternal grandfather probably would have preferred she be buried in the von Marbach family plot, though maybe not. Maybe having her here made both his father and his grandfather miserable, for different reasons.

The grave itself was fairly simple, a plain white slab, carved with both his mother’s name and his father’s, though his father’s side had yet to be carved with a date of death. 

He and his father stared at the grave for a little while, the moon rising over the bare tops of the trees, providing more light than what was spilling out from the temple’s windows.

“This is your fault, you know,” his father said.

“I know, sir,” Reuenthal said.

“If you hadn’t been born—“

“I know, sir.” Reuenthal clenched his fists tighter in his pockets, nails digging into his palms.

“How old are you?” his father asked. Reuenthal wasn’t sure how he had forgotten.

“Seventeen, sir,” Reuenthal said.

“Hunh.” It was unclear why this answer stymied his father. “You look just like her, you know.”

“You’ve said that, sir.”

“You don’t think it’s true?”

“I don’t remember well enough to say.” This was a lie. He knew perfectly well that he looked like his mother.

His father nodded and didn’t say anything else. Distantly, Reuenthal could hear the sounds of everyone else leaving the temple, heading home to where feasts and parties awaited them, but he and his father just stood there in the cold and bitter wind for what seemed like an eternity.

When they got home, his father locked himself in the library, and Reuenthal went into the bathroom. He flipped on the overhead light and stared at his own reflection in the mirror. He covered up one eye with his hand, then the other.

It was funny. He had always hated his dark eye, an uncommon trait among the light-eyed people of the Empire, and something that marked him as not belonging to his father. But he covered his blue eye, and his dark eye was almost the same color as Leigh’s. A different shape, but a similar tone. He covered up his black eye, and he looked like his mother. Back and forth, he covered and uncovered them.

* * *

The relative peace of the von Reuenthal household did not last all winter break. Eventually, Reuenthal did something— he couldn’t even remember what— that had caused his father to hit him. Reuenthal had been wondering if his father would, and again if he would just stand there and take it, and the answer to those questions turned out to be yes. It wasn’t as though a semester away at school had changed anything meaningful about him. Any respect he had there was temporary, and when that was stripped away, only the bitter core of him remained.

There was one point when Reuenthal stood up to his father, though. His father had brought in the mail, which was odd, since he usually didn’t, and while he was sorting through the stack above the recycle bin, Reuenthal noticed a larger, more decorative envelope.

“That’s addressed to me,” Reuenthal said, right as his father was about to toss it.

“So?” his father said.

“So I’d appreciate if you gave it to me, sir.”

His father squinted at the envelope. He was probably a little hungover. “It’s from Count Mariendorf.”

“But it’s addressed to me.”

“I told you not to associate with them.”

“I would like to read the letter, sir.”

His father hesitated a moment, then tossed the envelope at him. It bounced off Reuenthal’s hand as he tried to catch it and fell to the floor. He picked it up, then turned to go, but his father said, “Well?”

Reuenthal decided it wasn’t worth fighting over. He stood there and opened the envelope, pulling out the heavy card with an invitation written on it in fancy golden script. “The count has invited me to his New Year’s party,” Reuenthal said.

His father made a derisive noise. “Of course.”

“I’m going to go to it, sir,” Reuenthal said.

“Are you?” His father seemed surprised, and maybe it was the surprise that prevented him from being outright angry. Still, he had to say next, “If you leave to go see them, I don’t want you back here.”

“I’ll go back to school,” Reuenthal said. Wanting to check if his father was disowning him, which would be a whole different set of complications, he tagged on, “Until summer.”

“Good.”

“Alright, sir.”

His father snorted again, then turned away, shuffling in slippers down the hallway into the library, where he closed the door hard enough to make the whole house rattle.

* * *

Reuenthal texted Leigh, inviting him to the Mariendorfs’ party. Leigh was hesitant, but Reuenthal was insistent, and he gave in after a few texts back and forth.

Reuenthal stole his father’s car on New Year’s Eve, and drove it back to the IOA, keeping the windows rolled down the whole time, so that his fingers were frozen numb to the steering wheel by the time he arrived.

It was already evening, and Reuenthal didn’t even stop by his own room before making his way to Leigh’s. He was already dressed in his dress uniform, and he rapped on Leigh’s door.

“I’m coming,” Leigh yelled, muffled.

It took another moment before the door swung open. Reuenthal’s expression softened slightly when he saw Leigh, and before he even said anything, he reached out and brushed a piece of lint off of Leigh’s shoulder. Leigh smiled at him.

“You ready?” Reuenthal asked.

“Sure.”

Even though they hadn’t seen each other in weeks, it felt to Reuenthal like they fell back into their usual way of existence with no hesitation. Leigh spent most of the ride telling Reuenthal about the books he had spent the break reading, holed up nearly alone in the dorms. Reuenthal appreciated this, since he certainly didn’t feel like recounting any of his own break to Leigh.

The Mariendorf estate was beautiful, as usual, well lit and sparkling in the snow. The pine trees swayed in a light wind. Reuenthal parked the car deftly in the front driveway, along with so many of the other guests’. Leigh seemed a little nervous, but there was really no reason to be. Reuenthal put his hand on his arm for a moment, and Leigh looked over at him, grateful, though Reuenthal looked straight ahead as they walked up the steps to the front door.

The butler let them in, then directed them to the main hall, where they were greeted by Countess Mariendorf.

Her face brightened when she saw Reuenthal, though he could see the confusion in her eyes when she looked at Leigh. Still, she was too graceful of a woman to make a scene at her own party, even if she disapproved of Reuenthal’s choice in friends. He wasn’t sure how much generosity he should ascribe to the countess on that score.

“Oskar! I’m so glad you could make it! Who is your friend?”

“Countess Mariendorf, this is my classmate, Hank von Leigh. Herr von Leigh, this is Countess Mariendorf.”

She smiled, then, hiding any misgivings so thoroughly that they may as well have never existed. “Any friend of Oskar’s is a friend of mine, I’m sure.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Leigh said, shaking hands with the countess. He looked as though he wanted to escape. Reuenthal touched his arm again, which was perhaps a mistake, because he could feel the countess’s eyes on the movement.

“I’ve known Oskar since he was this big,” she said to Leigh, holding her hands apart to demonstrate how large Reuenthal had been when he was an infant. Leigh did smile at that. “Please, come in, enjoy the party. My husband is around somewhere. I’m sure he’d love to meet Oskar’s friends, and Hilde will be so glad to see you, too.”

“I will keep an eye out for them both,” Reuenthal said, and then he steered Leigh into the ballroom, away from the countess, who was flitting away to entertain some other guests.

The ballroom itself was magnificent, decked out in streamers and adorned with candles. Reuenthal and Leigh, wearing only their cadet dress uniforms, were the least fancy of the guests. Although the Mariendorfs’ New Year’s party was not the most prestigious party that one could be attending on this night, it was probably one of the more pleasant ones, and the guests were still taking the opportunity to show off. 

“How do you know the countess?” Leigh asked as they walked further in, towards the food tables.

“She was friends with my mother, and kept a kind of interest in me when I was a child,” Reuenthal said. He had thought that was obvious, but he didn’t want to say anything else about it. 

“Oh,” Leigh said. “Which one is the count?”

Reuenthal nodded at Franz von Mariendorf, who was standing talking to a group of other men. “Over there. He’s fine.”

“High praise.” It probably was. “And who is Hilde?”

“Hildegarde von Mariendorf. Probably the youngest person at the party. I think she’s six.”

“Hunh.”

Neither of them were particularly adept party guests, so they ended up standing around for a while, Reuenthal getting them both glasses of wine to sip on. They were perfectly content to talk only to each other, enjoying the food and watching the other guests.

Of course, though, the count had to come over and talk to them. Probably this was on his wife’s urging, though Reuenthal hadn’t been paying close attention to the count’s movements through the large room.

“Good evening, Herr von Reuenthal, Herr von Leigh,” Mariendorf said.

“Good evening. I see the countess told you about my friend.”

“Of course.” Mariendorf was smiling, much more broadly than his wife had.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Leigh said, fumbling with his wine glass to shake hands with the count.

“Where are you from, Herr von Leigh?” Mariendorf asked. He seemed genuinely curious, without any malice in his tone.

“Phezzan, sir.”

“Beautiful planet, Phezzan. Expensive to live there, though. You two just know each other from the Academy, right?”

“Leigh is number two in the class,” Reuenthal supplied, trying to provide legitimacy to their friendship, in case the count wanted some justification.

“Oh? Congratulations.”

Leigh awkwardly scratched the back of his head. “I have several more years to try to keep that rank. We’ll see if that happens.” He paused, then glanced at Reuenthal and said, “Besides, Reuenthal is number one.”

Mariendorf made a funny expression for a fraction of a second before covering it up. Of course, he already knew that Reuenthal was first in the class. “You scamp,” he said. “You should have led with that. Congratulations to you, as well.” He winked and clapped Reuenthal on the shoulder. “I look forward to your successful career.”

“I hope that I live up to your expectations.”

His voice took on a bit of a different tone, then, and he glanced over to the side, where Reuenthal could see the countess watching this interaction like a hawk. “Do you ever get out much, at the Academy? Or do they keep you locked down in study?”

“Sometimes,” Reuenthal said. He understood where this was going immediately. The count, at least, seemed just as much playing the role as Reuenthal knew he would have to.

“Any girls ever come to visit?”

“Not in particular,” Reuenthal replied.

“Well then!” the count said with an obviously manufactured cheerfulness. “There’s plenty of eligible young ladies here tonight. Why don’t you both have some fun? There’s no need to be shy. Lots of women love a handsome cadet.”

“Of course, sir,” Reuenthal said.

The count turned and called to two young women who were chatting with their friends on the edge of the party. Reuenthal suspected they were students from the school where the countess taught music. 

The two women came over, and the count performed the introductions. Reuenthal wasn’t really paying attention to that, but he gave the requisite social bow to the woman in front of him, and when she offered her hand, he lifted it to his mouth and kissed the back of her fingers. He could feel Leigh watching him, mimicking at least the bow, with an odd expression on his face. Reuenthal felt something at that.

He offered his arm to his dancing partner and led her out onto the dance floor. The band at the front was playing something suitably jaunty, and Reuenthal danced with her, catching glimpses of Leigh fumbling with his own partner. Reuenthal put Leigh out of his mind, or tried to, thinking about the woman in front of him, and how to move his feet to the music, and how to follow the social rules that the countess wanted him to follow at her party.

Reuenthal danced for a long time. He could do it forever, if he needed to. It was just like anything else in that respect. It seemed like every girl approximately his age at this party took a turn with him, which may have been every girl in the senior class at the countess’ school. Reuenthal didn’t know. The countess would have disapproved of him trying to take one of these girls back to his dorm with him, or even out to his car. He didn’t want that, anyway, so it was a relief that it was forbidden and not expected.

As Reuenthal danced, he would occasionally turn to see Leigh, watching him from the sidelines. It seemed that Leigh’s eyes almost never left him, and he didn’t dance with any girl after the first, except for a brief bit with Hildegarde von Mariendorf, who didn’t count. Although Leigh was probably miserable, the sight of him watching Reuenthal with open jealousy on his face did please him.

Finally, as the clock was approaching midnight, Reuenthal excused himself from his last dance partner and went to find Leigh, getting fresh glasses of wine from the table and passing one off to him. 

“Having a good time?” Reuenthal asked, amusement and a half-apology coexisting in his voice.

“I haven’t found anyone so unpleasant as you had led me to believe, and the food is good,” Leigh whispered. Count Mariendorf was at the front of the room, giving some sort of little speech.

Everyone at the party counted down. “Fünf! Vier! Drei! Zwei! Eins! Happy New Year!” There was a wild burst of cheering.

Reuenthal raised his glass and knocked it heavily on Leigh’s. “Prosit!”

“Prosit,” Leigh replied, then drank, his face flushed.

Up at the front, the band struck up in Auld Lang Syne. “I’ll raise a cup of kindness yet for auld lang syne…” Reuenthal hummed under his breath.

* * *

_ January 476 I.C., Odin _

Reuenthal was more sober than Leigh when they left the party, though since the countess pressed a bottle of wine into his hands at the door as a thank you for coming, he doubted he would be by the time the night was over. Leigh was drunk— Reuenthal could see it in the flush of his cheeks, and Reuenthal kept his hand on Leigh’s elbow as they walked to the car. Leigh didn’t really seem to notice.

They mostly rode in silence on the way back, Leigh staring out the window, and Reuenthal just watching the road ahead. He engaged the car’s automatic steering, but he kept his hands on the wheel in case he wanted to override it. 

Back at the IOA, they made their way from the parking lot to the dorms, Leigh stumbling a little bit in the snow drifts that covered the path. When they reached the building, Reuenthal followed Leigh to his dorm room, and when Leigh had difficulty getting the key in the lock, Reuenthal took it and opened the door. Leigh had been leaning on the door, so the both of them almost fell inwards. Reuenthal kicked the door shut behind himself, not waiting for an invitation, and sat down on Leigh’s unmade bed. Leigh climbed on top of his own desk, his usual perch, sitting criss cross, elbows on his knees.

“Happy New Year,” Reuenthal said. “Shall we have our own toast?” Reuenthal held up the bottle of wine.

“What are we toasting to?” Leigh asked.

Reuenthal hastily looked around in the general mess of Leigh’s bedroom for cups, but found nothing except for Leigh’s thermos, which had seen better days. It was also full of the remains of old tea, which Reuenthal shook out as best he could. He pried the cork out of the wine bottle with his pocket knife, and generously poured himself a large drink, and Leigh a small one, so that they could be more equivalently drunk.

He raised the thermos while Leigh raised the detached cup. “To the future!” Reuenthal said. “Prosit!”

He drank.

There was still plenty to toast to, and plenty more wine for him to get through, so he kept coming up with more things to say. It entertained him.

“To the class of 479! Prosit!”

“To Wednesday’s practicum! Prosit!”

“To victory!”

His toasts became slightly sillier, but Leigh kept raising his cup, so Reuenthal kept talking. He kept his eyes on Leigh,watching his face, listening to him agree with Reuenthal’s toasts, seeing how his throat moved as he swallowed sips of wine. Reuenthal raised the thermos again.

“To Hank von Leigh,” he said.

Leigh froze and shook his head. “Don’t toast to that,” he said, a sudden urgency in his voice.

“Why not?” Reuenthal asked, leaning forward on the bed, feeling drunk and dizzy now.

“That’s not even my name,” Leigh said, then started laughing, an uncontrollable sound. "You knew that, right? That’s not even my name.”

No, Reuenthal had not known that. Not at all.

Reuenthal stood. His voice was low and quiet when he asked, “Who am I toasting to, then? I need to know.”

“Yang Wen-li,” Yang said, a rush of air going out of him all at once. He looked up at Reuenthal with those wide, dark eyes of his, fiddling with the cup in his hands.

“Then prosit, Yang Wen-li,” Reuenthal said.

“Prosit,” Yang replied. His voice was barely above a whisper. 

Yang started to raise his cup to his lips again, but Reuenthal put his hand on Yang’s arm and pushed it down. Time seemed to freeze for a moment as Reuenthal leaned forward towards Yang. His eyes were so wide, and his lips were slightly parted. Reuenthal could feel his breath, smelling like wine, as he leaned in to kiss him.

But then Yang leaned back away from him, unbalanced himself from his precarious position on the desk, and fell off backwards. His head smashed into the wall mirror, shattering it into hundreds of pieces, and the remaining wine in his cup splashed all over the discarded school papers on the floor. 

Reuenthal felt nauseous and horrible, knowing he had just destroyed something precious. He jumped backwards as Yang fell, then shook himself all over. He stared at Yang for a second, trying to figure out what he should do. He settled on the most neutral thing he could think of, an “Are you okay?” and “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—“

But even that was almost too much, and it wasn’t like Yang was moving, laying there on the floor among the wreckage of the mirror and all the garbage in his room. Even though it suddenly felt wrong to do so, Reuenthal knew he couldn’t just leave Yang like this, so he crouched down, at each moment deciding to touch, and then not to touch, and then to touch Yang. He finally got his hands underneath Yang’s arm and pulled him up and away from the mirror. Yang didn’t resist, but also didn’t help.

Finally, Reuenthal got him onto his bed, fixing his legs so that they weren’t dangling over the sides. Yang had his eyes closed, maybe pretending to sleep, maybe just not wanting to look at Reuenthal. Reuenthal dragged the comforter up over him, then grabbed the half-empty wine bottle from the floor and almost ran out of Yang’s room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> womp womp
> 
> I love making up weird religious stuff. it is my favorite.
> 
> Thank you to Lydia for the beta read!


	6. Derivatives of Desire

_ January 476 I.C., Odin _

Reuenthal spent the next morning nursing a bad headache. After he had left Yang’s room, he had finished the bottle of wine, thrown up in the bathroom, and then passed out on his bed. He didn’t sleep well at all, waking up to the bright light of the sun stabbing in through the blinds, directly into his eyes. He didn’t leave his room all morning, finally showering in the afternoon, and then wandering aimlessly through the empty, snow covered campus until dinner time.

He almost didn’t want to go to dinner because Yang was sure to be there, but he would have to face him eventually.

Reuenthal wasn’t sure how he had misread the situation so badly. It had seemed at every turn that Yang was interested in him. He had thought the attraction was mutual and well understood. After all, why else would he have talked so much about being  _ dangerous _ to Reuenthal? Why else would he have allowed Reunthal to touch him so much? Why else would he have tried to brag to Count Mariendorf about Reuenthal’s position? Why did he look at Reuenthal dancing with such naked jealousy in his eyes? Why else did they spend all of their time together? Why did Yang tell him things that he would quite obviously tell no one else?

He had told him his secret name. That felt like it  _ meant  _ something. It gave Reuenthal power over him. It was intimate. Reuenthal couldn’t possibly have imagined the tension that had existed in the room then. The air was thick with it.

Maybe Reuenthal had misinterpreted things. He had never had a friendship like this before, and Yang obviously had no one else at school. Maybe things had just gotten intense because they were both somewhere so new, and Yang lacked allies other than Reuenthal. Maybe Reuenthal, now that he was outside of his father’s direct influence, had just been mistaken about how things could be.

He had thought that he and Yang had something in common. It was even more bitter this time to realize that was not the case.

A larger part of Reuenthal than he was comfortable acknowledging wanted to abandon Yang completely. It would be easy, Reuenthal knew, to disavow him and throw his lot in with the rest of the freshman class. Yang probably wouldn’t last too long without any allies. Either he would drop out of his own volition, or someone would manufacture some sort of scandal against him, or Ansbach and his cronies would kill him. 

Reuenthal could even be the one to manufacture the scandal, if he chose. It would be easy enough. 

He kicked at a pile of snow that had been shoveled off the path. It was frozen solid, and his toes bounced off of it painfully. He had circled campus several times now, wandering aimlessly, and he was in front of the statue of Rudolph von Goldenbaum that guarded the gates. Reuenthal stared up at it for a second, the imperious figure with hands on his hips, metal eyes disdainfully looking out over the snow covered buildings of the IOA.

Yang, a foreigner. Reuenthal, a homosexual. Kaiser Rudolph would have had them both killed. But he and Yang were here together anyway, somehow.

Reuenthal wanted to despise Yang. He wanted to be able to walk away from him. Or, at least, he wanted to want those things. He couldn’t though. He knew he couldn’t, at least not now.

The unfortunate desire remained.

Reuenthal had come to terms with the fact that he was a homosexual long ago, mostly after a strange and clumsy high school encounter with another boy on his swim team, who had left his school not long afterwards. It hadn’t been much of anything, really, but Reuenthal had thought the matter over and come to various conclusions about himself.

It did not surprise or shock him that he was a creature born to be reviled. This was nothing new. It was simply another aspect of something he had known since he had been old enough to know anything. If his father hated him because he was a bastard, if his mother hated him because he was evidence of her infidelity, and if the rest of the world was unsettled by Reuenthal’s strange eyes, then what did it matter if it was all tied to some deeper, loathsome thing?

It had never bothered him much. In fact, he was somewhat relieved to realize that it meant he would not have to go through life searching for a woman who would be faithful to him. He rather doubted there was such a thing. If someone were to demand, someday in the future, that he enter into a marriage, he would understand from the outset that it would be loveless, and thus he would not be disappointed when that turned out to be the case.

In any event, he had never before wanted to excise that part of himself, though he suspected that many would. Until now, anyway, when he wished that he could remove that burning sting of desire, or wished that he could wish to remove it. 

He was angry. Angry at Yang for spurning him. Angry at himself for the rest. Angry at anything he could think of to be angry at.

It was better to be angry than anything else, but as he walked, picturing himself refusing to speak to Yang out of that anger was too difficult. He somehow couldn’t stomach the thought of going the rest of his four years at the IOA without speaking to Yang. There had never been anyone before who Reuenthal had felt had understood him.

He was annoyed at himself for not wanting to give that up, because it had always seemed like he should be able to give up whatever he needed to. 

His hands were clenched in his pockets so hard that it took effort to uncurl his fingers to open the door to the dining hall, when he finally headed in for dinner, the sun setting behind him.

Yang was in his usual place, a book open in front of him. Reuenthal watched him for a second, then went to go get food. He settled his internal debate and went up to Yang.

“May I sit here?” Reuenthal asked.

Yang jumped, dropping his fork, which he had been absentmindedly using to stir around the rice on his plate. “You don’t have to ask,” he said, and closed his book.

Reuenthal didn’t look at Yang directly for a minute, and ate in silence, wondering if Yang would say anything. He didn’t, and he couldn’t understand the expression with which Yang was looking at him. Annoyed, now, Reuenthal said, “Last night—“

It was then that Yang decided to inhale as though he was going to start talking, but Reuenthal shook his head.

“Last night, I did something unbecoming of myself while under the influence. I apologize. It will not happen again.”

Yang’s voice was almost strangled when he spoke. “Reuenthal—“

“Von Leigh,” Reuenthal said, trying to make it clear that he could be cool and professional.

Yang didn’t say anything for a second, then looked down at his plate. “I accept your apology,” he mumbled.

“Thank you,” Reuenthal said. And that was the end of it.

* * *

_ January-May 476 I.C., Odin _

It was difficult to be friends with Yang, and nothing but friends, but Reuenthal tried. He removed temptations from himself, trying not to allow himself to desire anything. He stopped partnering with Yang during hand-to-hand practice, and he never again let Yang into his room to stay up all night and talk. He regretted the absence of these things, but it was for the best.

A tension remained between them, but perhaps Reuenthal was the only one to notice that, and thus perhaps he was imagining it. The way Yang looked at him, sometimes— before, Reuenthal would have described the look as charged with something, but he had to try to understand that this was apparently just the way that Yang looked at him. It drove Reuenthal half insane, that longing look, and he could never get it out of his head at night.

He told himself none of it meant anything, and he pretended like he believed it.

The year passed almost quickly, and somehow the winter melted off into spring, April’s warm, wet winds drifting over campus. The landscaping crews didn’t care much for flowers around the IOA, but the fresh green buds were beautiful in their way, and when it wasn’t raining, everyone took every chance they could to be outside. 

One day, after dinner, Reuenthal and Yang were walking very slowly from the dining hall back to the dorm. There was a familiar tendency to linger in Yang’s posture, and Reuenthal didn’t care to rush him along, as it meant that they would probably go their separate ways for the night, so they took the long way back. The air was cool and clear, and the first stars were beginning to pepper the cloudless sky.

They had been walking in silence, but after some time, Yang said, “Hey, Reuenthal.”

Reuenthal turned to look at him. Yang had his hands in his pockets, and he wasn’t looking at Reuenthal directly, instead looking up at the tree branches over Reuenthal’s head, his chin lifted a little. 

“About your summer…” Yang said.

Reuenthal tensed. “What about it?”

Yang rubbed the back of his head. “You don’t, ah, are there any places near where you live that I might be able to, you know, get a summer job? And sublet somewhere?” He trailed off a little, and Reuenthal thought that he might have mumbled something else about not being allowed to stay in the dorms over the summer, but it was too low to hear.

“I’ll find you something,” Reuenthal said.

Yang raised his hands, suddenly more anxious. “Don’t go out of your way. I was just— if you knew off hand— you know.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Reuenthal said. He managed a smile. “I wouldn’t leave you homeless.”

Yang let out a relieved rush of breath. “Thank you.”

The question of what to actually do with Yang was a relatively trivial one. He debated trying to find a position for him somewhere in his hometown, but then decided that having Yang and his father be anywhere within a hundred kilometers of each other was asking for trouble. He instinctively understood that the two spheres of his life needed to remain separate.

This left Reuenthal with only one reasonable option, so he wrote a letter to the Mariendorfs. Specifically, he addressed it to the countess. Although Reuenthal was sure that Count Mariendorf would say yes, and it was his house, he knew it was the countess who would need to be won over. And, additionally, the countess was Reuenthal’s personal benefactor. 

It was somehow easier to ask the Mariendorfs for something when it was not for himself. Asking on behalf of Yang was simple, and he was grateful for the patronage of the Mariendorfs when he received a positive letter in response. There was no hint that the countess thought Reuenthal was improper for asking, though she may have just decided not to express it. 

Reuenthal had gotten the letter from the Mariendorfs on Tuesday night, and he was planning to give it to Yang on Wednesday when he saw him, but he was slightly derailed by Wahlen before he made it to the SW practicum.

Wahlen caught up with him on the green, getting Reuenthal’s attention and gesturing for him to move away from the door so that they could have a bit more of a private conversation behind a tree.

“Figured I’d give you some advance warning,” Wahlen said, glancing behind himself at the brick building where the SW class was being held.

“What exactly do I need advance warning for?” Reuenthal asked.

“Remember how we were talking a while ago about getting a rematch between you and Leigh?” Wahlen asked.

Reuenthal raised an eyebrow. “I suppose. It comes up often enough.” He hadn’t played an SW game against Yang since the winter. It was well known that Staden didn’t want to match the two of them up, just in case Yang won. Even Staden subscribed to the idea that the last line of defense between the freshman class and complete lack of respectability was Reuenthal in the first place position.

“Yeah,” Wahlen said. “Well, Bittenfeld decided to take matters into his own hands.”

“Oh?” Reuenthal asked. “What did he do?”

“I really— I wish I knew what exactly he said to Staden. But you and Leigh will be against each other in class today.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Sure,” Wahlen said. “I’m sure you’ll have a great time playing him.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You think Staden’s going to let Leigh have even a chance of winning?”

Reuenthal frowned. “You are aware that I am annoyed by the implication that I should need protecting from Leigh. We are both undefeated.”

“You know it’s not about your personal pride.”

“I am not some symbol for the freshman class. And neither is Leigh, for that matter. Bittenfeld shouldn’t have messed with things that aren’t his business.”

“Yeah, I don’t disagree. I just wanted to warn you.”

“I don’t know what you expect me to do with this information.”

“I don’t know,” Wahlen said. “Play the game Staden wants you to play, I guess. And don’t let Leigh win to prove a point.”

Reuenthal glared at Wahlen. “I would not  _ let _ Leigh win.”

“Just making sure.”

“You aren’t ashamed of the idea of Leigh taking first, are you?”

“No,” Wahlen said. “But if he did—“ Wahlen paused. “He’s my friend, too, you know. And if he takes first, people will be out for blood.”

“So you want me to beat Leigh to protect him.”

Wahlen was getting annoyed with Reuenthal’s tone. “Look, you do what you want. I’m just warning you because I think you should know.”

“Thanks,” Reuenthal said. They headed into class together.

Despite the strange circumstances, Reuenthal was looking forward to a rematch with Yang. He wanted to see if his own skills had improved any, and he also just enjoyed playing against his friend.

Reuenthal was a little early, which meant that when Yang came in to class, Reuenthal was already seated. Yang slid into the chair next to him. Reuenthal leaned over, speaking directly into Yang’s ear, their shoulders brushing. “I heard an interesting rumor,” Reunthal said, his voice low.

“I did, as well,” Yang said. “Do you think there’s any truth to it?”

“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Nervous?” Yang asked.

Reuenthal looked at him, and their eyes met for a second. There was that same strange look on Yang’s face, the one that Reuenthal could never interpret. “About you?” Reuenthal asked. “Never.”

Staden walked into the classroom, then, so Reuenthal had to straighten up and focus on the lecture, which went by quickly. Yang was fidgeting in the seat next to him, and Reuenthal pretended to be calm.

They glanced at each other one last time as they left the lecture hall and went off to find their individual cubicles for playing the game. Yang had a grin on his face, clearly as eager to face Reuenthal as Reuenthal was to face him.

The first priority when sitting down to one of these simulations was always to look over the goal, and the resources he had at his disposal. 

The goal was fairly simple: Reuenthal’s forces were in orbit around a planet, and he needed to capture the capital city of the planet and occupy it. It became clear when reading the situation further that he was not expected to fight a space battle, as all of his opponent’s forces were ground troops. He had only been given ships in this situation so that he would face the obstacle of landing troops in hostile territory. That was good, because it meant that it didn’t really matter that his ships were horrible, ancient things. He was playing out a situation from the Earth-Sirius war, which meant that the ships were so outdated technologically that they would have been difficult and unpleasant to work with if it had been a space battle.

He figured that there would be a great deal of organized resistance on the ground. It would have been too easy, of course, for him to have knowledge of that, or of where the enemy’s strongholds were. He would have liked to have begun the game with an aerial assault, but part of his win condition was to preserve as much of the city’s infrastructure as possible. 

So, Reuenthal had to win quickly. He was about to give orders to split his forces to begin landing, but the GMs sent him a message.

> You are receiving a radio transmission from the city.

And then the transcript of the message. Reuenthal shook his head when he read it.

“This is a message to the people of this city,” Yang began. “It’s 7:15 local time. It’s a beautiful night out. Warm. If you can, please stop what you are doing and go outside. Just for a second. Go out onto the streets. 

“Look. The stars are out.

“In just a moment, coming around from the west, you’ll see the ships of the Earth Space Force. They’re crossing the horizon now. You might not be able to see them clearly, but look how they block out the stars. Sometimes, it’s absence which is most revealing.

“Some of you have made up your minds to leave. Some of you have made up your minds to stay. Some of you may have thought one thing, but now, looking up into the sky at these ships that are crossing the stars, you are wondering if you have been thinking about this all wrong.

“Listen to me,” Yang said. “Listen to me for a second.

“Every one of you has made a list in your heart about what is worth fighting for in this city, should you need to make the choice to take up a gun. Many of you, I am sure, would say that you would only do so to protect your family and the people you love. I commend you for that.

“Others may say that they would take up arms to defend themselves from tyranny. They would fight to live in peace, with self determination for all people. These people are my brothers.

“And some of you here may say that you wish to defend this city, because it is your home. This planet, because it is your fatherland.

“But what is a fatherland? It is just a piece of ground. What is a home? Without people in it, it is just a building.

“I said that absence is most revealing. Even now, I know that people are taking all they can carry on their backs and running as far as they can from this place.

“Soon, this city will be empty. All the people who have made it vibrant and a place worth protecting will have gone. Their absence will reveal that a home is nothing more than brick, and the fatherland is nothing more than a word.

“You would not make the choice to fight for empty buildings, empty streets, and an empty fatherland. You should go. Leave, be safe, and take the fatherland with you.

“I am a man without a family, and soon I will be a man without a fatherland. What remains is my spirit, and the things that I believe to be true. I believe that no power from across the galaxy should have the right to dictate the ways we live. No invading army should have the right to kill and plunder. And no man should have such authority without being resisted.

“These beliefs cannot be taken from me so long as I am living, and I can do nothing now but fight to show that this spirit remains alive in myself, and in the people of the fatherland, however dispersed they may become in the days ahead. 

“To those of you who are leaving: go in peace. Go well. Go safely.

“To those of you who are staying to take up arms with me: we must not desire to be martyrs here. There is a contradiction, that we must fight because to not do so would be to sacrifice something greater than our own lives, but our lives are the most precious things that we have. We will not throw them away, and we will not allow them to be taken easily.

“We are not an army of martyrs, because we will not embrace defeat and death before we have even begun. We are not an army of martyrs, because we are fighting for things worth living for. 

“I wish that we were all living a different life, one where we could live peaceful lives with the people we love. But wishing will do us no good. We have work to do.”

That was the end of Yang’s little broadcast. Reuenthal couldn’t help but picture him as he might have looked in this universe that they were pretending to inhabit. Did he have a uniform, or was he dressed only in civilian garb? Was he a former leader, or was he someone who had been thrust into a position of power through cruel twists of fate? He was standing in the streets of a city that would soon be destroyed, and looking up at the stars, where Reuenthal’s ships in orbit blotted them out as they passed silent across the sky.

Reuenthal would be wearing the stiff uniform of an Earth Space Force admiral, and he would be staring down out the window of one of his ships, looking at the ground below. Was he cruel and unyielding, this Reuenthal?

Yang had succeeded in sweeping Reuenthal up into this game, and Reuenthal was happy to play his part. It was obvious to the both of them that Yang had been set up by Staden to fail, otherwise he would have been given actual tools and soldiers, rather than a ragtag army of volunteers. Yang knew he was not going to win, so he might as well have fun with Reuenthal beating him. Reuenthal looked forward to it, even if it wasn’t the even match he had been hoping for.

The GMs reported to him again that he was seeing a long line of civilians leaving the city.

Reuenthal drummed his fingers on his desk, then sent a message to the GMs.

>I order a small detached force (40 units) equipped w/ secure radio to land outside detection range of the civilians and the city. They should go on foot in disguise and infiltrate the civilian column. If there is any sign that the column is actually insurgents who will attempt to return to the city after I have landed, I want that to be reported to me. Otherwise, allow civilians to proceed away from city limits.

He knew by letting the civilians walk away, he was giving Yang a lot of time to prepare himself, bunker down, probably block streets and improvise weapons, but he would have been upset at Reuenthal if Reuenthal had decided to play unfairly. Not as though the real Earth Space Force commanders hadn’t wholesale slaughtered civilians during the Earth-Sirius war. Still, Reuenthal would let Yang have this little advantage. It probably wouldn’t matter.

After the column of civilians had marched away, Reuenthal began his attack. The majority of his forces would have to land outside the city limits and fight their way in, since his units included tanks and heavy artillery that would need to reach the ground in huge ships, but making an obvious approach like that was sure to get him bogged down in fighting at the edges of the city, while Yang had even more time to prepare. What Reuenthal needed to do was approach from an unexpected direction.

He sent the majority of his forces down to approach the city from the easiest possible path, avoiding the river and its bridges that Yang was sure to have already destroyed. When he was sure he had caught Yang’s attention with that obvious approach, he very carefully selected a few buildings as targets within the city, and bombed them from the air, creating a wide open space into which he could land fast troops on foot. He used these mobile troops behind whatever lines Yang had set up, taking down snipers and trying to clear a path for his main forces to come into the city.

It had been a valid opening salvo, and Reuenthal was happy that Yang seemed a little startled by it, and was forced to give up a significant amount of ground, but after that, things became a lot less clear and easy. It was very difficult to fight a guerrilla army in this unfamiliar territory. Yang could destroy buildings, wear down Reuenthal’s men, attack from any direction and vanish without a trace, and generally make it very hard for Reuenthal to take and safely keep territory within the city. He used construction vehicles as makeshift tanks. He used the rubble from buildings as barricades. He salvaged things from the refineries on the outside of the city that somehow kept fires burning unnaturally hot and long.

It was a brutal fight, and it dragged on for several weeks of in game time. Reuenthal was grinding Yang down slowly, seizing territory inch by inch as his forces worked their way through the city. Yang made it as hard as possible, and Reuenthal was paying in both blood and stone, as Yang collapsed the city around himself, making it less and less liveable. 

Reuenthal kept getting impatient and trying to take things faster than he should, and each time, Yang made him pay for it. It didn’t really matter, because Reuenthal was going to take the city, but it was funny to see these smaller engagements, where they were on slightly more equal footing, and Yang was micromanaging his troops. Reuenthal would make his familiar mistakes of getting greedy, and Yang would swat him back. It wasn’t as though Reuenthal didn’t know this would keep happening, but he was getting tired of the game dragging on so long, so he kept trying to force it to end at his pace, rather than Yang’s. But Yang dictated the pace.

As class ticked towards its conclusion, Yang finally also decided that he was done with this. The GMs forwarded Reuenthal a message: Yang was making another radio broadcast.

The image that Reuenthal had in his head of Yang was different, now. Why was he interested in this construction of Yang: dirty and bruised, but proud, strong despite the months of hard fighting, where he probably hadn’t had a real meal or night’s sleep in that time. It was a fantasy that Reuenthal created, but it was a powerful one, and he suspected that he would be imagining it for a while.

“Long ago,” Yang’s broadcast began, “I said that we were not an army of martyrs. Perhaps that was a misstatement: we were not an army at all. We started out with no uniforms, and we end with no bullets left. Hardly a standing army. But there are still enough of us alive who I would like to see avoid becoming martyrs.

“We were fighting for our city. Well, there’s hardly a city left to fight for.

“We were fighting for our friends and brothers. Well, it would be better to live to continue to be friends and brothers.

“We were fighting for our pride. And, in the end, what’s that worth? Not a life.

“To the enemy commander: I know that you have spent a lot to take and hold this patch of ground, far from your own home. For every one of us, we have killed five of you. We could draw this out until you have paid in blood for every last inch of street, every last brick. But what would be the point of that?

“I would like to meet, to discuss the terms of our surrender. You choose the place.”

The familiar excitement sat heavily in Reuenthal’s stomach. This was unusual, and he wondered what Yang’s win condition was, what he was going to try to extract from Reuenthal in the form of promises. Despite himself, Reuenthal wanted to give Yang what he wanted.

He picked a spot on his map, near his own headquarters, a building that his forces had kept well under his control for most of the battle. Reuenthal sent his little commander token there, and watched on the map as Yang’s commander token became visible and proceeded to the same place. 

Reuenthal pictured them standing there together. Maybe they were looking out the window of the top floor at the wreckage at the city, standing shoulder to shoulder. “Look at what we’ve made between us,” Reuenthal might say.

Instead, he typed out, “What are your terms of surrender?”

He got a message from Yang.

“I do not personally expect to be treated with mercy,” Yang wrote.

Reuenthal started to type out a reply: “You think I’m not honorable enough to treat the enemy commander well?” but then deleted it. Yang was playing a role. Reuenthal could play a role too. “That’s not a term,” he said.

“May I have a cup of tea?”

“You’re surrendering your city for a cup of tea?” Reuenthal asked aloud, amused. Of course Yang would say something like that. “Of course you can have a cup of tea,” Reuenthal typed. 

The GMs sent Reuenthal a message then: “Your opponent says ‘something profound about not being a martyr.’”

Reuenthal was suddenly reminded of the moment in the forest. It wasn’t the arrows that had killed Saint Sebastian. Reuenthal only had a second to think about this, and wonder if Yang was trying to say something to him about that, when the GMs advanced the clock, and Reuenthal received one final message.

“The explosives in the water mains beneath 27 Katchoi St. have exploded. The building has collapsed. You have died.”

It was a cheap trick, one that Reuenthal probably should have expected, but he hadn’t. He was suddenly angry, at himself for not suspecting something like this would happen, and at Yang, for stealing the win from him at the last second. It was just like Reuenthal was any other student in the class: Yang must have prepared this plan long in advance and purposefully avoided using that part of the city’s infrastructure, so that Reuenthal would never suspect—

It wasn’t as though the rug had been pulled out from under him. The rug, the illusion that Reuenthal controlled the parts of the city he had, had never existed in the first place.

He grit his teeth and stood. At the front of the room, Staden was watching him stand up, anger also written plainly on his face. “Cadet Reuenthal, a moment of your time.”

“Of course, sir.” The classroom was empty, since Reuenthal and Yang had gone about a half hour over the allotted time.

“What, exactly, was that about?”

“Which part, sir?”

“Leigh’s speeches, if you can call them that.”

“I think he was just having fun, sir.”

“I’m not sure what is so funny about it.”

“It’s an inside joke, sir. He knew he was playing against me.”

“Cadet von Reuenthal,” Staden said after a loaded moment of silence. “I am going to say this to you exactly once, and I hope that I never have to say it to you again: inside jokes that could potentially look like treason are dangerous to you. It is in your best interest to keep yourself where you belong.”

“And where do I belong, sir?”

“First in the class. Above Leigh, and above all of his ‘jokes.’”

“He’s a better player than I am.”

“No, he is not,” Staden said. “The point of the game is to teach you to be an officer in His Majesty’s fleet. You seem capable of learning that lesson, while Leigh does not. Thus, you are the better player.”

“He was playing a role, sir. He wasn’t saying anything about himself.”

“If the games said nothing about you, we would not play them,” Staden said.

“Yes, sir,” Reuenthal said.

Staden pinched the bridge of his nose for a second. “Be more careful, Cadet. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I assume Leigh is waiting in the hallway for you.”

“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Reuenthal said, though he did know that Yang almost always waited for him after class. “Clearly, I cannot predict what Leigh is going to do.”

Staden shook his head. “Send him in here. I need to talk to him.”

“Yes, sir,” Reuenthal said.

He headed out into the hallway. As he expected, Yang was waiting for him. Yang was smiling, but Reuenthal was still bitterly angry.

“Congratulations on your win,” Reuenthal said.

“I didn’t win,” Yang replied. “At best, I didn’t lose.” It annoyed Reuenthal that Yang was nonchalant about this. Maybe Bittenfeld was right, and losing to someone who didn’t care if they won was the worst feeling.

Reuenthal jerked his head at the classroom he had just left. “Staden wants to see you.” Yang nodded and started to head in, but Reuenthal remembered the envelope in his pocket. “Oh, and this is yours.” He held it out to Yang, who smiled as he took it.

“What is it?” he asked, but Reuenthal was already walking away.

* * *

Reuenthal knew he really should get over his annoyance at losing to Yang. There was part of him that said he had lost more than fairly, in a game where Yang had had every disadvantage. If Reuenthal had been paying closer attention, if he had had just a bit better intuition, he could have crushed Yang completely. But he hadn’t.

Some part of him said that if he let his anger fester, he could take Staden’s advice and divorce himself from Yang.

He couldn’t do that, though, and he was really just annoyed for the sake of being annoyed, and so all through finals week, he barely spoke to Yang in anything more than monosyllables, though they still sat together at dinner. Yang tolerated this, though it was unclear if he was tolerating it because he had no one other than Reuenthal, or because he was just indulgent with Reuenthal’s moods.

Finally, final grades came out, and Reuenthal checked the rankings while packing his few possessions to go home for the summer. He was surprised at what he saw. There, at the top of the list, was his own name. It didn’t make sense. Yang had beaten him.

He clicked his name to see his individual scores in classes, and then on the SW practicum class to see the win/loss record. His last game against Yang was marked as a win for Reuenthal.

He scowled. It was one thing to fall to second place against Yang. He had expected that, and while it burned to lose to Yang (who didn’t care), it would have at least been what Reuenthal deserved. He hated the sensation that he was getting undue credit, like some noble who had not worked for anything that they had.

Everything Reuenthal had in life, he had tried to earn himself. It was why the pity of the Mariendorfs grated so heavily. It was why he couldn’t stand Ansbach, who thought that Yang didn’t “deserve” his place at the top of the class by virtue of being a foreigner. 

Reuenthal was still scowling as he walked to Yang’s dorm room and rapped on the door. Yang opened the door, and was surprised to see him there, though he quickly smiled, eyes lighting up. When Yang held the door open for Reuenthal to come inside, Reuenthal just shook his head and leaned on the doorframe.

“I’ll talk to Staden about fixing your rank,” Reuenthal said.

“Don’t bother.” Yang went back to picking up some of the garbage that littered his floor, stuffing old papers into a black garbage bag that had clearly been stolen from the maintenance closet down the hall.

“You deserve the number one spot.”

“I really don’t think our last matchup could be called a win on my end. And I probably should apologize for not playing fair.”

Reuenthal would take that. “I should have listened when you told me that you didn’t expect to be treated with mercy.”

Yang chuckled. “I should have taken my own words to heart.”

Reuenthal was glad that they were talking again. “Still, your rank should be commensurate with your abilities. Even if it wasn’t whatever Staden considered a technical win, you had better tactics through the whole match. Staden should give you more credit for doing so well in an unwinnable situation.”

Yang tilted his head. “Did you read the game transcript when you were writing your postmortem?”

“No, I remembered it well enough.”

“You might want to. Just for your own edification.” His voice held a strange note.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Staden is also playing the game on a different level.”

Reuenthal pulled out his phone and navigated to the class webpage to read the game transcript. His brow furrowed as he looked it over. The game had been heavily edited. Most of Yang’s accomplishments had been changed or deleted, and all of his personal messages to Reunthal were gone. That burned, for some reason. Whatever had passed between them had been erased, like it no longer existed. It was one thing for messages to be left in a code, but it was another for things to be deleted entirely.

“Why are you letting them do this to you?” Reuenthal asked, his voice bitter.

Yang, who was by now casually pulling all the sheets off his bed and stuffing them into his laundry basket carelessly, said, “I don’t care about rank.”

“I’m not just talking about rank.”

“Ages ago, you told me to be more ambitious.”

“I still think that’s the case.”

“And I told you that I had the wrong kind of ambitions.”

Reuenthal nodded, though he was tense, thinking back on those conversations they had had. He had misunderstood Yang so completely.

“When one has the wrong kind of ambitions,” Yang said, “it’s sometimes better to let things like this go. It doesn’t matter. The future is a big place, and the fewer enemies I make now to hide in it, the better.”

“I think I misunderstood you when we originally had that conversation. And for that, I apologize.”

Yang laughed, clearly surprised. “What did you think I meant?”

It was clear that Yang had been talking at the time about treason, about the real danger he represented as a foreign influence. They had both been trying to talk about something that couldn’t be said directly, and Reuenthal had been blind to the fact that they were talking about two different things. “Something even less proper than what you’re currently implying.”

Yang was startled. Maybe he hadn’t realized they were talking about different things, either. “Oh? And what would that be.”

“You would take offense at the implication,” Reuenthal said, trying to keep the scowl off his face and out of his voice.

“I’m sure I wouldn’t,” Yang said. Reuenthal wasn’t so sure that was true, so he changed the subject.

“You told the countess that you would be staying with her over the summer?” he asked.

Yang scratched his head. “Yes. I didn’t want to impose—“

Reuenthal cut him off. “She has plenty of both space in her house and money. You’ll hardly be an imposition.”

“I don’t know why she would make an offer like that.”

“She’s a generous woman,” Reuenthal said. He considered something, something that maybe Yang would like to hear. “And I’m sure that she and the count are already trying to find an appropriate match for their daughter.”

Yang couldn’t contain his disbelief. “Number one, I’m hardly an appropriate match for the daughter of a count. Number two, she’s six.”

“Seven. Her birthday was in February.”

“So much better.” Yang shook his head, as if deciding that Reuenthal had been joking. He hadn’t been, not exactly. If Yang allied himself to the Mariendorfs in that way, it might provide him some measure of protection. And the countess probably was taking an interest in making an honest man of Reuenthal’s friends, however little Yang actually needed it. “Are you going to come visit over the summer?” Yang asked.

Reuenthal frowned and crossed his arms. “We’ll see.”

“I get the feeling that the Mariendorfs consider your visiting a payment for having me stay there. I’ll do you some favor when the school year starts to make up for it.”

It wasn’t as though Reuenthal didn’t want to see Yang over the summer. The situation was just complicated. Difficult. “I should start charging for my time by the hour.”

“And I would like to see you, as well, you know,” Yang said, smiling. Reuenthal hated the look on his face. He really didn’t understand, did he? But he couldn’t help but feel the usual unfortunate tenderness he always felt when looking at Yang.

“We’ll see,” Reuenthal said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> explosives in the water main / a blown fuse / college graduation photographs / splashed all over the six oclock news / I won’t be cashing in your policy / until I find out what it is you’re trying to do to meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
> 
> derivatives of desire:  
> x = a state of being, ie, being good at math class  
> x’ = desiring a state of being, ie “I wish I was good at math class.”  
> x’’ = wanting to desire a state of being, ie “I wish I was the type of person who cared about being good at math class.”  
> x’’’ = being a jerk (thanks for that great addition to the joke, jade)
> 
> reuenthal gayngst edition
> 
> this chapter involved a minor retcon of the same section in speaking in tongues, b/c lydia didn’t like my speech there lol
> 
> thanks to lydia for the beta read!


	7. This Is My Father’s World

_ July 476 I.C., Odin _

The summer was hot and difficult to bear, but Reuenthal bore it.

His days followed a usual pattern. In the morning, he would wake up long before his father, usually before it was even light out, and he would go on a long run, several miles at least, looping from his house to his old high school to the train tracks that ran adjacent to the river at the edge of town. This was, by far, the most pleasant part of his day, and he would slow his pace as he grew closer and closer to returning to his house. Sometimes, his father would be asleep when he came back, but usually he was awake.

His father would be in the kitchen, squinting at the coffee maker as though he hadn’t been making himself a coffee every day for the past thirty years.

“Where have you been?” he would ask.

“Out for a run,” Reuenthal would say, as though the answer would ever change.

And then his father would make some kind of sound as though he didn’t believe him, but Reuenthal would already be walking away to shower and dress for work.

On his way out the door, it was the same. “Where are you going?”

“Work.”

“Isn’t it the weekend?”

“I work weekends.”

“Oh.”

It didn’t ever seem like his father believed that he was going to work, but Reuenthal wasn’t sure what his father thought he was doing. 

He worked in the maintenance department of the local park board, a job he had gotten upon the recommendation of one of his high school teachers. It suited him fine, and he was decently good at fixing a broken tractor, or repairing a burst pipe, or laying new fencing, or whatever odd job was required of him in a day. It paid enough that he could cover his petty expenses when he returned to school, and it let him get out of his father’s house. Really, he would have worked any job that did those things.

He was home by six, though, which meant that the evening stretched long and bleak before him. Reuenthal had taken to buying groceries for himself and daring to cook more openly in the evenings. He wasn’t going to spend his summer starving.

Reuenthal wasn’t sure how he had lived his whole life up to this point. Perhaps he had gotten soft, with a year of comfort and ease at school.

It wasn’t as though his father really hit him with any regularity. In fact, even when Reuenthal took the car, his father had just yelled some and then went to bed. But it was never the actual injury that had been what Reuenthal cared about. It was everything else, the feeling of walking on tiptoes through the house to avoid disturbing his father; the way his father looked at him with apathy at the best of times, and absolute hatred at the worst.

Maybe he shouldn’t have cared about that. It wasn’t exactly the oppressive feelings of the moment that made him so stiff and silent. He was the same height as his father now, but something inside him had calcified long ago, when he was small and his father loomed over him, and that bitter stone inside him sat so close to his core that, no matter how little he and his father interacted with each other, he still somehow felt the same way he had before.

At night, sometimes, Reuenthal would quietly sneak out of the house and talk to Yang on the phone, walking through the trees in the back of his father’s property. They didn’t speak every night, maybe a few times a week, but Reuenthal looked forward to these calls. They didn’t talk about anything, really, just the way Yang’s day had been, or if Reuenthal had seen something interesting on his morning run. Yang would always ask Reuenthal if he would come visit, and Reuenthal would fight the urge to say yes. He would lie and say that he couldn’t get off work. But really, he didn’t want to aggravate his father, which he certainly would by going to the Mariendorfs, and by going to see Yang. Yang sounded disappointed every time, and Reuenthal was never sure how to feel about that.

June passed this way, and then it was July.

It had been raining all day, thunder and lighting so bad at times that Reuenthal’s boss at the parks department had told everyone to either find something to work on inside one of the buildings, or to go home for the day. Reuenthal had stayed, repairing a few of the canoes that could be rented out to take on the lake, sitting alone in the boathouse and caulking the cracked wood. At the end of the day, his boss had told him on no uncertain terms that he would not be walking home in the rain, and so had given Reuenthal a ride back to his father’s house. Reuenthal appreciated it, but he could tell that his boss, a well meaning older man, was confused when he pulled up in front of Reuenthal’s long driveway, the house visible past the trees.

“You live here, Oskar?”

“Yes, sir,” Reuenthal said.

“Mike never told me that von in your name meant something,” he said with a laugh. Mike was the teacher who had recommended Reuenthal for his position.

“It doesn’t, sir,” Reuenthal said. “This is my father’s house.”

“That means it’s yours, doesn’t it?”

“No, I wouldn’t expect so, sir,” Reuenthal said.

“Didn’t know you had an older brother.”

“He doesn’t live around here,” Reuenthal lied.

“Ah. Shame inheritances aren’t ever fair, isn’t it?”

“I can make my own way.”

His boss continued as though Reuenthal hadn’t said anything. “I guess my daughters won’t have to worry about that, since they’ll inherit equally. Half of zero’s never gonna be one.” He laughed. “You’re going to the officer’s school, you said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll do fine, then. You’re a good one.”

Reuenthal wanted to escape this conversation. “Thank you, sir.” He had his hand on the door handle.

“Have a nice night, Oskar.”

“I will. Thank you for the ride.” And then he was out and dashing through the rain into the house as thunder boomed overhead.

Later that night, Reuenthal was eating dinner by himself at the kitchen table. He could hear his father pacing around in the library a little way down the hall, his footsteps heavy in the otherwise quiet house. The wind tossed handfuls of rain against the kitchen window, and the lights flickered with the occasional lightning strike. 

Reuenthal’s phone rang.

Usually, Yang would text him before calling him, and Reuenthal might have said no, since it was raining too hard to take the call outside, but this must be urgent, since he had foregone that nicety. Reuenthal answered.

“Reuenthal, are you there?” It was as though Yang had never learned to talk on the phone properly.

“I’m here,” Reuenthal said. “Is everything alright?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, but Reuenthal could hear Yang breathe, so he knew he was still there. “Count Mariendorf was going to call you, but I said that I would.”

“What’s the matter, Leigh?”

“The countess died,” Yang said. “This afternoon.”

Reuenthal closed his eyes, the world narrowing to just that blackness and the sound of Leigh’s voice in his ear. “How?” he asked. His voice was calm.

“Car accident,” Leigh said. “I don’t really know the details. She was on Route Four, there’s a big curve after exit forty four, do you know it?”

“I do.”

“She must have lost control of the car, or the auto steering failed, or something.”

“Oh,” Reuenthal said. “Was anyone else—“

“The van that hit her was totaled, but the passengers in it were fine. She was alone in the car.”

“When is the funeral?” Reuenthal asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll tell you. You’ll come?”

“Yes,” Reuenthal said. He wanted to say something else, but then bit his tongue. “I’ll come.”

“I’m sorry,” Yang said.

Reuenthal was silent for a second. “Do you need somewhere else to go?” Reuenthal asked.

“No,” Yang said. “No, the count said I could stay.”

Reuenthal nodded, though Yang couldn’t see him over the phone. “Should I call him?” Reuenthal asked.

“Tomorrow, maybe,” Yang said. “Not now.”

“Okay.”

“Are you alright?” Yang asked. “Is there anything I can do?” His voice had a wavering quality to it.

Reuenthal heard footsteps. He opened his eyes. His father was leaning in the doorway. “I have to go, Leigh,” he said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Call me,” Yang said. “If you need anything.”

Reuenthal hung up the phone without responding.

“What was that?” his father asked.

“A friend,” Reuenthal said.

“Who died?”

“The Countess Mariendorf.”

His father let out a snort of derision. “Figures.”

“What figures, sir?” Reuenthal asked, standing. He was suddenly angry. 

“She had a brat, right?”

“She had a daughter, sir.”

His father stepped into the kitchen. Reuenthal tensed up, but his father just went to the fridge and took out a beer.

“A toast,” his father said, cracking the beer open and holding it up. “To all the women who abandon their husbands and children.”

“She didn’t kill herself, sir.”

“How would you know?”

“It was a car accident.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” his father said. “It’s probably easier to drive your car into a tree than it is to do most other things.”

Reuenthal didn’t feel like recounting the details to his father. “She wouldn’t do that, sir.”

“No? When I married your mother—“

Reuenthal had had enough. He tried to walk away past his father, but his father grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him to a halt. Reuenthal could smell his breath. “What do you want, sir?” Reuenthal asked.

“You go to that funeral, you give the count my sincerest condolences.”

Reuenthal would not be doing that, but he wanted his father to let go of him, so he said, “Yes, sir.” His father shoved him away, and Reuenthal retreated to his room.

* * *

The day of Countess Amelie Mariendorf’s funeral was hot and bright, without a single cloud in the blue sky, which the sun pierced like a needle. The hot, bright light glinted off of the brass on the casket. Reuenthal’s head was pounding, and he was sweating in his suit. 

She was being buried in the family plot, in a distant corner of the Mariendorf estate. Reuenthal was standing next to Yang, who had basically not said a word the entire time, but who had looked at Reuenthal with such wide, sad eyes. He was stiff and still, too, and his hair was slicked back in an attempt to make him look neat and presentable for the various nobility who were in attendance at the funeral, but it mostly made him look uncomfortable and half unfamiliar to Reuenthal. It had been over a month since they had last seen each other.

Reuenthal tried to think about nothing, while he listened to the weepy reminiscences given by the countess’ fellow teachers at her school, and the sad, controlled voice of Franz. His eyes kept drifting to Hildegarde von Mariendorf, who was dressed in a suit, and who had red eyes but was not crying. She clutched her father’s hand desperately. 

Reuenthal had been a little younger than she was when his own mother had died. But even then he had known that his father’s hand crushing his shoulder was not there for support. It wasn’t as though Reuenthal had lost an ally when she died. She had hated him, too, just like his father. So it shouldn’t have mattered. He thought about this, and looked at Hildegarde.

Yang’s father had died last April. Strange to think about that. Reuenthal suddenly realized that he had never heard anything about Yang’s mother. Where was she? He wouldn’t ask.

The service ended, the casket having been lowered into the cool, dark earth. Everyone tossed in their flowers, and then trickled off back to their homes and the world of the living. The count asked Reuenthal to speak with him for a moment, and so they walked back to the mansion. Yang sat with Hilde outside on the porch while Reuenthal followed the count inside, to his study.

Franz didn’t say anything for a moment, but poured two glasses of whiskey from the cabinet behind his desk and handed one to Reuenthal. They sat down across from each other.

Reuenthal did not often find himself at a loss for words, but he wasn’t precisely sure what to say to the count here. “I’m so sorry, sir,” he finally said.

The count nodded. He was looking across the room at a painting, a family portrait that he had commissioned several years ago, when Hilde was about five. For a family portrait of nobility, it was remarkably casual. Franz and Amelie were outdoors, sitting on a low stone wall, smiling at each other. Between them, Hilde was leaning on the other side of the wall, her chin on her hands, grinning out at the viewer. Reuenthal suspected that this framing was chosen to avoid needing to paint Hilde in either a skirt or pants. Either way, it was a charming image. It had been pastoral and quaint when it had been painted, but now it was melancholy to look at. 

“Thank you for coming,” the count finally said. “I understand that it is difficult for you to get out sometimes.”

“It would have been unforgivably disrespectful for me not to come, sir,” Reuenthal said. He paused. “I am sorry that I didn’t visit earlier in the summer.”

The count shook his head. “It’s not as though you could have known.”

“No, sir.” Reuenthal took a sip of his drink. “But you and the countess have always been generous to me, and I have often paid that back with less gratitude than I owe.”

“Oskar—” the count said. “Amelie always understood your situation. Far better than I did, I think. There’s no need for you to feel guilty about that.”

It wasn’t guilt, exactly, that sat heavily on Reuenthal, but he nodded anyway. “Thank you, sir.”

“She was very proud of you.”

“I know, sir.”

“When your mother died, she wanted to take you away from your father, you know. But your father would never have agreed to that.”

Reuenthal had vague memories of the countess visiting his family home once, after the funeral, and the yelling match that had occured between her and Reuenthal’s father, but he hadn’t known what it was about at the time. He had been very young. “It’s fine, sir. I have my place.”

The count tipped his glass around. “Are you all right, Oskar?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you ever do need a place to go, our doors are always open to you. That hasn’t changed.”

“Thank you, sir.” Reuenthal knew he would never take the count up on that offer, and the count knew that, as well, but it was the ritual of offering that was important. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” He hesitated a moment. “If you need Leigh to find a different place, I can—”

“No, no,” the count said. “Your friend Leigh has been the greatest help. He is welcome to stay for as long as he likes. I should thank you for sending him to us.”

Reuenthal nodded. “He is… a good man.”

“May I ask—” the count began, then shook his head.

“What, sir?”

“I’m curious about the nature of your relationship with Leigh. But it’s not my business.”

A frown crept onto Reuenthal’s face. “He is the closest friend I have ever had, nothing more and nothing less, sir.”

The count nodded. “Amelie had wondered— Well, it doesn’t matter.”

“No, sir,” Reuenthal said firmly.

The count nodded. “I understand.”

“How has Fraulein Hilde been?” Reuenthal asked, wanting to change the subject.

The count looked at his hands. “It is difficult for any child to lose their mother. She’s old enough to understand what’s happening. I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse.”

Reuenthal nodded.

“Do you remember your mother at all, Oskar?”

“Some. But I was very young.”

The count shook his head. “She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Reuenthal said, feeling bitter at all of this. “She made her own choices.”

“Perhaps,” the count said. He looked at Reuenthal. “Amelie always said you had the best parts of her.”

“I don’t take after my father,” Reuenthal said, which was as neutral of a statement as he could make. He wished the count wasn’t bringing all of this up, but if the count needed to talk about this bitter history, then Reuenthal had no choice but to let him.

The count shook his head, a little pensive. “I knew your father before he married your mother. You wouldn’t like me to tell you that there is some resemblance, though.”

“He’s not my blood relation.”

The count ignored Reuenthal’s objection. “You’re proud, like he was. Intelligent, too. And the ways you move, sometimes, or talk. He’s not like that any longer, but when he was younger…” The count trailed off, and there was a very awkward silence for a moment. “I shouldn’t leave Hilde out there with Leigh for so long. He’s been too patient with me.”

“He is very grateful for your generosity,” Reuenthal said as the count stood. “And he likes Fraulein Hilde.”

The count’s smile was wan. “I know.” The count put his hand on Reuenthal’s shoulder for a second as they walked to the door of the study. “Please do come by any time, Oskar.”

“I will, sir,” but they both knew that was a lie.

Reuenthal found Yang outside, scuffing his feet on the lawn. He smiled when Reuenthal came over.

“Do you have to leave right away?” Yang asked.

“No, I can stay a little longer.” The sun was sinking down in the sky, and their shadows grew long as they walked away from the house, towards the pine woods that surrounded it. There were well maintained little walking trails there, and they went quietly, shoulder to shoulder, for a while, until they were well out of sight of the house itself. 

Yang kept glancing at Reuenthal with a concerned expression, but he didn’t say anything, perhaps not wanting to say the wrong thing. Reuenthal’s conversation with the count had put him past the point of being offended by anything Yang could say, though.

“Count Mariendorf thanked me for sending you here,” Reuenthal said after a while, just to break the silence. “He says you’ve been a great help.”

Perhaps the tightness in Reuenthal’s voice had been enough to push Yang over the edge of concern. “Reuenthal, are you alright?”

Reuenthal let out a harsh laugh.

“I’m sorry,” Yang said.

“For once, von Leigh, this has nothing to do with you.”

Leigh flinched. Perhaps reminding Yang that he was the source of at least some of Reuenthal’s troubles had been too cruel. But it was too late to take that back. “Is there anything I can do?” Yang asked.

“Please don’t ask that question.”

Yang stopped walking. Reuenthal didn’t look at him. The shadows were gathering between the pines, wrapping them in warm darkness. The wind blew.

“Reuenthal…” Yang said.

And then Yang crossed the step of distance between them and wrapped his arms around Reuenthal, his hands clutching at the back of Reuenthal’s suit. Reuenthal’s breath froze in his lungs for a second, and he closed his eyes, shocked at the contact. He wasn’t sure if anyone had ever hugged him like this, and he was stiff until he forced himself to relax into the touch, putting his arms on Yang’s back, and his forehead on Yang’s shoulder.

In the darkness of the crook of Yang’s neck, he whispered, “I live in hell, Yang Wen-li.” He wasn’t sure if Yang heard him, because he didn’t say anything back, just continuing to hold Reuenthal. Perhaps he would have stayed that way for as long as Reuenthal let him, but Reuenthal pulled away after a few seconds.

The rest of the summer was not worth speaking about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: [ this is my father’s world, oh let me never forget ](%E2%80%9C)
> 
> reuenthal just lies constantly b/c it’s convenient and he doesn’t care. he has many personal issues. this is like the least of them. but you can see exactly where he gets it from!
> 
> thank you to lydia for the beta read <33


	8. The Two Angels Came to Sodom in the Evening

_ August 476 I.C., Odin _

Reuenthal returned to school without much fanfare, taking up residence in the slightly larger sophomore dorms and pinning his new year pin on his collar. He didn’t feel as though anything had changed since the year before. Even his classes were almost the same, just one level higher. 

There were some responsibilities that he theoretically had as a sophomore, such as contacting the number one student in the year below, in order to be his mentor. Reuenthal did that, and never received a response, so he considered that duty accomplished, and ignored it.

Yang, on the other hand, seemed to be taking his mentorship duties a lot more seriously. His mentee had asked if there was any way to get extra SW practice, and Yang had asked everyone he knew if they would be willing to play some extra games against his mentee.

“It surprises me that your mentee is so eager to learn the ropes around here,” Reuenthal said as they walked out of hand-to-hand class together. The night was cool, thanks to a slight wet breeze, and Yang and Reuenthal were alone on the path back to the dorms. “I wasn’t jumping on the opportunity to get more SW practice.”

“Maybe he is high strung, and is just good at hiding it,” Yang said. “That’s what Eisenach said, anyway.”

“Think he’ll be any good?” Reuenthal asked.

“No idea,” Yang said. “Well, I mean, I don’t think he’s going to beat you. I should have volunteered Bittenfeld to match up with him. Then he might stand a chance.”

Reuenthal chuckled. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“If Bittenfeld’s ego can’t stand a little bruising, I don’t know what he’s doing hanging around with you.”

“And you.”

“Sure,” Yang said. “I guess I’m looking forward to it, though.”

“What are you going to set up for our scenario?” Reuenthal asked.

Yang lightly punched Reuenthal’s arm. “You don’t need more of an advantage against him.”

“I just want to make sure you’ll make it interesting.”

“Have I ever bored you, Reuenthal?” Yang asked.

“No, never,” Reuenthal said. “It’s the only reason I keep you around.”

Yang laughed. “It’ll be fun to play some games without Staden looking over my shoulder.”

“You had better be careful in class this year. I don’t think he’ll tolerate too much more from you.”

“He’ll get over it,” Yang said. “And if he gets me kicked out…” Yang shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“I would.”

“I know,” Yang said with a smile. “I don’t think it’s going to happen, anyway. I’ll toe the line, I promise.”

“Save all your strange rants for your game against Eisenach,” Reuenthal said.

“I think if there’s any person in the world who cares the least about hearing me give a speech, it would be Herr Taciturn.”

“Well, I look forward to whatever you have prepared for me,” Reuenthal said.

“Don’t get your hopes up on it being that thrilling. I want to ease my mentee into it slowly.”

* * *

That Friday, Reuenthal and Wahlen were in Joseph’s. They had tried to invite Yang, but he had apparently fallen asleep directly after his last class, missed dinner, and could not be roused no matter how much Reuenthal knocked on his door. He had texted Reuenthal an apology, but by this time Reuenthal was slightly buzzed and Yang’s apology had included the line, “I’ll see you tomorrow, I’m going back to sleep,” so Reuenthal did not expect him to show his face. 

He and Wahlen had staked out one of the nicer pool tables, not the one with a bit of a wobble, and were on their second game. Joseph’s was crowded, since it seemed like the entire new freshman class had decided to show up to celebrate the end of their first week of classes.

“Any idea when Staden’s going to be back?” Wahlen asked.

“Why would you think that I have any more information on that than you do?” Reuenthal leaned over the table and sent the four ball into the pocket.

“I don’t know. Just trying to get your professional opinion.”

“If he was going to be gone for more than a week, they’d have somebody else fill in.” Staden, their instructor for the SW practicum, had unexpectedly cancelled the first week of classes, across all years. All of the sophomores that Reuenthal spoke to were disappointed by this.

“Strum said he was having surgery.”

“For what?”

“I dunno,” Wahlen said. “Stomach trouble? I heard him mention that once.”

“Well he’s always complaining about his headaches,” Reuenthal said.

“True,” Wahlen said. “Well, I hope he gets back soon. I don’t really know if I trust anybody else to take over the class.”

“I’m sure they’d find somebody. Staden’s not that special. He’s married to theory.”

“Not like Leigh, you’re saying.”

“Sure,” Reunthal said, keeping his voice light. “Leigh could teach everybody a thing or two.”

Wahlen laughed. “Maybe. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”

“Has he sent you the game setup?”

“I don’t think he’s made it yet,” Wahlen said. He had volunteered to help GM the game Reuenthal would be playing against Yang’s mentee. “I would bet you he’s going to wake up around two in the morning, furiously put the whole thing together, and then sleep through physicals.”

“Starting the year off strong. How much would you bet on that?”

“Oh, you’d bet against me?”

Reuenthal smirked. “I can get Leigh to come to physicals.”

“Then it’s not a fair bet. I’d have to bet against Bittenfeld or somebody who can’t influence the situation.”

“True.” Reuenthal was about to sink the eight ball when there was a resounding crash from the other side of the room, the sound of shattering glass, and a high-pitched yelp that cut over the din of loud student conversation. Reuenthal turned to see what was going on.

One of the waitresses— Reuenthal thought she was probably new, since she was young, and he hadn’t seen her around before— had dropped a whole tray of beers on the ground, and was standing alone in the center of the room, her face beet red. Reuenthal decided that it was not his problem, or even a problem at all, and went back to trying to line up his pool shot.

The volume of the bar had decreased in the sudden shock of the dropped glasses, though, so Reuenthal could clearly hear the sound of a few mocking voices, taunting the waitress. Reuenthal rolled his eyes and sank his shot. The manager would be out in a second to yell at the students. Threatening to kick them out and not let them back in was usually enough to forestall any trouble with the wait staff, since Joseph’s was the only place that students had easy access to. The belligerents must be freshmen, then, because only freshmen would stupid enough to make trouble like this in the first week of classes. Upperclassmen at least usually waited until they got really drunk after midyear exams.

The harsh voices continued for a second. Reuenthal made his shot and then stood, looking around to see if the manager was going to appear. There was no sign of him. Wahlen was hefting his own pool cue, just in case. Reuenthal leaned over to him. “You go see if Herr Gronmeister is around. Check the back.”

Wahlen nodded, dropped his pool cue on the table, then headed into the back.

Reuenthal continued to watch the situation, which was rapidly disintegrating. One of the freshmen was stepping up towards the woman, then reaching to take the tray out of her hands. A bit of a ring had formed around the waitress, and she was looking around to try to escape.

A different student pushed through the crowd then, and came up to stand between the waitress and the leering freshman. This new student was shorter than average, with long blond hair worn in a ponytail. He said something that was too quiet for Reuenthal to hear across the room, but the other student responded loudly, “Oh, yeah? Really?” and tried to shove the blond out of the way.

The blond boy didn’t move, though, and so the taller freshman swung a punch. That was all the blond needed, though, and he responded in kind. The blond was graceful and quick, but he was also surrounded by people who apparently liked the other guy more than they liked him. Funny that he should have made enemies already. Reuenthal decided to step in, at least until Wahlen came back. 

He waded through the fray, hefting his pool cue, and he whacked it against the knees of someone who was swinging at the blond, distracting him enough to allow the blond to duck out of the way. He glanced at Reuenthal, and their eyes met for a split second, a smile involuntarily breaking out on Reuenthal’s face as he dropped the pool cue to punch someone who was coming towards him.

He and the blond freshman ended up side by side, protecting each other’s backs. In the sudden fracas, the waitress had had a chance to escape, dropping the rest of what she was holding to retreat behind the bar and into the kitchen area. Reuenthal and this freshmen were the focus now.

Someone miscalculated their punch and ended up scraping their fingernails across Reuenthal’s jaw, and he kicked at their ankles for that, sending the boy tumbling to the floor. The blond next to him got whacked with the pool cue that Reuenthal had dropped, though by now it had been snapped in half, and he ended up with a matching scratch.

The fight didn't last very long. Wahlen returned with the huge owner of the establishment. While Herr Gronmeister started yelling, Wahlen restrained someone who wasn't getting the message. Wahlen mouthed at Reuenthal, "Go," and jerked his head at the door before Gronmeister turned to address the rest of the fighting students.

Reuenthal took Wahlen's advice and edged his way out through the crowd, most people either trying to return to their drinking or make the same escape as Reuenthal, so no one really noticed him go.

Except for the blond, who followed him out.

"Hey," the blond boy called as Reuenthal was walking down the road. "Thanks, in there." The blond jogged up to him.

Reuenthal stopped walking to let him approach. The moonlight and neon glow from the bar's humming sign was illuminating his hair, some of which had slipped out of its ponytail and was dancing in the wind. He was handsome, Reuenthal decided, with an open, honest expression on his face. His eyes might have been blue or grey, Reuenthal couldn't really tell.

"How'd you get so many enemies already, freshman?" Reuenthal asked. 

He shrugged, smiling. "Von Eichmann just thinks he can say or do whatever he wants just because he's first. You must know how that goes."

Reuenthal suppressed his smirk at the unintentional insult. "Of course," he said. "Just be careful you don't get them so mad at you they start looking for revenge."

"If it happens, it happens," the other boy said, not seeming bothered at all by the prospect of punching the freshman number one again.

"Put some salve on that cut," Reuenthal recommended. "You won't want to be telling a story of how you got a scar in your first week of classes for the rest of your life."

He laughed. "I will. Thanks for the advice."

By this point, Wahlen had come out of Joseph's and was making his way back toward Reuenthal. "Not a problem," Reuenthal said, and with a nod began walking again.

"See you around?" the freshman asked.

Reuenthal turned and walked backwards for a second. "Probably not," he called back. "Freshmen and sophomores are like water and oil."

"Wet behind the ears and slimy, respectively?" the other boy riffed.

"No," Reuenthal said. "We're just on top, you see." He smirked again and headed off with Wahlen, leaving the other boy shaking his head.

* * *

Reuenthal found Yang in the dining hall the next day at lunch. Yang had not shown up to physicals, which wasn’t really surprising, but was funny. It was a good thing that Reuenthal hadn’t actually bet against Wahlen.

“Starting the year off strong, I see,” Reuenthal said, sliding down into the seat across from Yang.

“I’ll go tomorrow. I forgot to set an alarm.”

“This new ‘toe the line’ strategy of yours isn’t really working.”

Yang looked up from the book he was flipping through, then. “It’s not like anyone misses me at physicals.” He frowned a little. “What happened to your face?” He touched his own jaw, indicating the place where Reuenthal had scraped his the night before.

“Caught the wrong end of a bayo,” Reuenthal lied. It was just instinct to lie about the origin of any injuries, the words slipped out before he even really thought about it, and then it was too late to take it back. It didn’t matter.

“Ouch,” Yang said in a flat voice. “You ready to face my mentee?”

“Sure,” Reuenthal said. “Let me finish my lunch first, though.”

“See, if you skipped physicals like me, you’d have time for a leisurely meal.”

Reuenthal just shook his head and ate.

They met up with Bittenfeld and Wahlen and Yang’s mentor, Eisenach, in the hallways of one of the academic buildings. Eisenach had somehow managed to get off-hours access to a fully set up training room, so their little group would have plenty of privacy during their games.

“Your mentee ditching us?” Bittenfeld asked.

“He’s probably just trying to find the room,” Yang said. “I’ll text him.”

But that didn’t end up being necessary, because they heard footsteps jogging down the stone-tiled hallway, and then Yang’s mentee appeared around the corner.

Reuenthal clamped down on his surprise. He looked a little different in the bright hallway light, but it was the same freshman he had fought side by side with the night before. Their eyes met for a second across the hallway, and Reuenthal hoped his slightly smug expression would clue the other man in to not saying anything.

“Oh, there he is,” Yang said. “Hey, Mittermeyer, glad you could make it.”

“Sorry, I had trouble finding this hallway,” he said. “Thank you all for volunteering to help me out.”

Yang made the formal introductions. “Er, everyone, this is Mittermeyer, my mentee. Mittermeyer, this is Reuenthal, Bittenfeld, Wahlen, Eisenach.”

Mittermeyer shook hands with everyone. His handshake was firm, and he grinned right back at Reuenthal, though he seemed to have picked up on the fact that Reuenthal had not mentioned to Yang that they had already met. It didn’t look as though Wahlen recognized him, either, but that wasn’t that surprising, as Wahlen had been out of the room for the beginning of the fight. 

Everyone seemed happy to get started with these games. Reuenthal was certainly curious to see what Yang had prepared for him. They all sat down at the computers around the room, and Yang stood at the front for a second, explaining the basics of the scenario and how to play the game to Mittermeyer.

The scenario that Yang had chosen was a relatively simple one, and Reuenthal noted immediately that he was at a slight disadvantage. Reuenthal’s goal was to capture a star system that Mittermeyer was holding. The game was timed, so Mittermeyer, who had a smaller force, could win by holding out until his own reinforcements arrived to end the game. 

Reuenthal, who had plenty of practice at playing these games, entered his commands very quickly, and then had to wait for a while for the GMs to advance the clock; Yang and Wahlen were clearly giving Mittermeyer plenty of time to send out his own commands.

The first thing that Reuenthal did, and the standard opening move in almost any game, was to send out scout ships to see what the positions of Mittermeyer’s forces were hiding within the system. Reuenthal received a slew of ‘no contact’ messages from most of his scouts, but one of them was destroyed before it could send back an update. Of course, this told Reuenthal exactly where Mittermeyer’s forces were hiding. Mittermeyer eventually found and destroyed the rest of Reuenthal’s scout ships, but by this time, Reuenthal had already given the command to start moving in to the system, targeting the space where Mittermeyer’s fleet had been.

When Reuenthal’s forces arrived at the specified point, he found only a small detachment of ships waiting for him. He surmised that Yang would not be cruel enough to give Mittermeyer this paltry of a fleet with which to defend himself, so this must be only a fraction of Mittermeyer’s forces, with the other, larger piece waiting to swoop in and attack his backside. Reuenthal approached the detached group of ships as slowly as he could, waiting for Mittermeyer’s larger force to appear and try to encircle him.

When they did, Reuenthal ordered all of his ships to turn and charge, breaking through the center of Mittermeyer’s attempted encirclement. Mittermeyer’s forces swerved out to either side, allowing Reuenthal to pass through mostly harmlessly, and they joined back up with their detached force. Both of their attempted tricks and countertricks had cancelled out, and so both fleets ended up whole and staring at each other across the battle space.

It became almost a dance, then. Every move that Reuenthal made, Mittermeyer seemed to intuitively know the counter, and the opposite was true. For every mistake or misstep either made, the other capitalized on it. They were so well matched that it thrilled Reuenthal. It was almost like fighting Yang, but Yang never made some of the mistakes that Mittermeyer was making.

Mittermeyer had the smaller force at his command, so Reuenthal was able to grind him down until, finally, Mittermeyer pulled his forces out and retreated, losing the game.

Reuenthal’s heart was pounding with the strange excitement of this hard-fought battle, and the thrill of victory. He turned his chair around as Yang pulled off his headphones and started addressing Mittermeyer across the room.

“I can’t fault you for that,” Yang said. “I probably would have done the same thing.”

“Good game,” Reuenthal said, trying to inject some honesty into his usually dry voice. Mittermeyer grinned at him.

“Yeah, you too.”

“Do you want to know the secret to winning this?” Reuenthal asked.

“Sure, though they’re not going to reuse the exact same game type in class, are they?”

“Not this exact one,” Yang said. “What are you about to tell him?” He was curious, looking between Reuenthal and Mittermeyer.

“The same thing I told you: you have to remember what level you’re playing the game on.”

“What do you mean?” Mittermeyer asked.

Reuenthal leaned back in his chair while Mittermeyer leaned forward. “This isn’t real,” he said. “If this was a real battle, it obviously would be best for you to retreat and meet up with your allies. That way, you could come back and recapture this whole place, taking it easily against me, since I’m now much weaker after a prolonged fight. It would, in fact, be suicidal of me to stay without reinforcements of my own arriving, so, while you retreated, I should have chased you and tried to destroy you before you could meet up with your friends. That way, even if I can’t hold the starzone, your overall force would be weaker. I’m sure you were thinking about those real logistics.” Reuenthal’s smile was only slightly predatory.

Mittermeyer nodded. “Some of them.”

“But this isn’t real. You retreated, so you lost. It’s really a very simple game, when it comes down to it.”

“Don’t let him psych you out,” Yang said, trying to inject some compassion for Mittermeyer into the conversation. Mittermeyer didn’t need it, though. He didn’t seem upset at losing, and was just listening to the advice the sophomores were giving out. “I have that same internal struggle every time I play.”

“He gets lost in the fantasy,” Reuenthal said, jerking his thumb at Yang. “Then Staden yells at him.”

“Once,” Yang said. And it was certainly more for Mittermeyer’s benefit than it was for Reuenthal’s when he said, “I probably won’t do that again.”

“Probably,” Reuenthal agreed.

Yang kicked his feet up on his desk, which made Eisenach whack his legs to get him to put them down. Yang ignored it. “It’s stupid though. If you think like that, I think you’re setting yourself up for bad habits in the future. When there’s actual people on the line, and real stakes, not just points.”

“I don’t know,” Bittenfeld said. “I think I play the game the same as I would act.”

“Of course  _ you _ do. But maybe you shouldn’t,” Wahlen said, giving Bittenfeld a long-suffering glance.

“So, what are you saying, that the SW classes are useless?” Mittermeyer asked.

“Not useless.” Yang and Reuenthal said that at the same second, glancing at each other with an amused expression.

“I think they do a decent job at separating the wheat from the chaff,” Reuenthal said. Or the water from the oil, for that matter.

“They’re good at some things,” Yang said. “Forcing you to develop situational awareness, quick decision making, adapting to other people’s ways of thinking. At least in the top level SW class, anyway.”

“The problem isn’t people who play the game as though it’s real,” Reuenthal said. “They’re probably fine, if wasting their time. The problem is people who learn that the best way to treat reality is like a game.” It was a delicate balancing act, and while Reuenthal swayed too far to one side of it, Yang often went too far in the other direction, and neither really profited from it.

“Stop lecturing the kid,” Bittenfeld said. “You’ve already crushed his spirit enough for today.”

* * *

The group played another game after the conclusion of Reuenthal and Mittermeyer’s matchup. Eisenach faced Yang in some sort of historical, horseback cavalry situation that Bittenfeld cooked up. Mittermeyer helped GM, learning the ropes of that process. Yang won, handily, as Reuenthal had suspected he would. Yang was unmatched, and Reuenthal had the strong thought that Yang would probably win these games against any of the teachers, as well.

When it was all over, everyone seemed eager to meet up again the next week and play again, just for fun. The pretext of practicing schoolwork had been quickly dropped. Everyone could see that it was an interesting challenge to face off against the most talented and agreeable subset of their classmates, in an arena where there was nothing but their own pride on the line, and where they would have more creative freedom than they might in class. 

Everyone dispersed, mostly planning to head to dinner on more or less circuitous routes, but as Reuenthal was heading out, Mittermeyer jogged up beside him. Reuenthal let him catch up and they walked together.

“Sorry for insulting you the other night,” Mittermeyer said. “I would have deserved you holding it against me.”

“You continue to insult by implying that my ego is so easily bruised.”

“Can’t win, can I?”

“No, of course not,” Reuenthal agreed.

“I shouldn’t have been so quick to discount the number one,” Mittermeyer said. “Since Leigh mentioned you positively.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Mittermeyer looked across campus. “I guess I should trust his opinions.”

“Yes, you should,” Reuenthal said.

“How did the two of you become friends, if you don’t mind me asking?” Mittermeyer asked.

“I helped Leigh after he was shot on the kaiser’s horseback hunt. Life around here would be significantly less interesting without him.” Reuenthal shrugged.

“I can tell,” Mittermeyer said. “I look forward to playing against him.”

“No, you don’t,” Reuenthal said. 

“Why not?”

“He’ll beat you.”

“Not after I get some practice.”

“No one’s beat him yet,” Reuenthal said.

“But you’re first.”

Reuenthal’s smile was tight and uncomfortable. “Only because Leigh cannot be allowed to have the first place position. He won’t tell you that he deserves it, but he does.”

“Oh,” Mittermeyer said. “I see.”

“If our positions were reversed,” Reuenthal began, then stopped.

“What?” Mittermeyer asked.

“I would like to think that I would do something about it.”

“Why doesn’t he?”

“The easiest thing to say is that he doesn’t consider it worth fighting for. Maybe that’s the truest, as well. I don’t know,” Reuenthal said. “He would be unhappy if I did anything on his behalf.”

“Would you do something, if he wouldn’t be upset?”

Reuenthal glanced at Mittermeyer, who had a curious expression on his face. “Why do you ask?”

“You seem close. I don’t know. I was just curious.”

“Is that so?” Reuenthal’s voice held a warning note.

Mittermeyer frowned. “Is that not true? You both speak very highly of each other.”

“We’re friends,” Reuenthal said. Mittermeyer’s question was probably innocent, and probably had more to do with the fact that Yang was foreign than anything else. “I suppose it’s partially about my pride, anyway. I would like to be a person who earns what they have. I remain hopeful that I will someday beat him, so that I can deserve my place.”

“Good luck,” Mittermeyer said. “Have you really never beaten him?”

“If you ask him, he’ll tell you that he lost to me. Don’t believe him.”

“Is he just lying to keep up the image?”

“No,” Reuenthal said. “There’s probably part of him that actually believes it.”

“You must be well matched then, if each of you thinks that he’s losing to the other.”

“Perhaps,” Reuenthal said. They were coming into view of the dorms.

“I enjoyed playing against you, for what it’s worth. Though I probably didn’t present much of a challenge.”

“No,” Reuenthal said, “You put up much more of a fight than I was expecting.” He didn’t say anything about the strange way Mittermeyer had felt able to predict his movements. Perhaps Reuenthal had telegraphs that he didn’t himself know. He would have to read over the match transcript later.

“Oh, I’m glad to hear it,” Mittermeyer said, sounding surprised and pleased. “Maybe all you sophomores aren’t so far above me as I had feared.”

“Probably not,” Reuenthal said. He paused for a second as they turned the last corner onto the residential quad, glancing at Mittermeyer and considering something. “I was joking the other night, by the way,” Reuenthal said. “You’re welcome to join us for dinner, if you like.”

Mittermeyer’s face lit up as he smiled. This invitation seemed to please him an inordinate amount. It surprised Reuenthal, both how pleased Mittermeyer was and how much Reuenthal unexpectedly liked to have made Mittermeyer smile.

“I will, then,” Mittermeyer said. “Though maybe not today, since I said I would meet with some of the engineering guys to do homework.” He frowned a little.

“Engineering guys? Why would you be working with them?”

Mittermeyer heaved a sigh. “I’m not technically in the SW department. I’m an engineer.”

“Oh, like Leigh in history.” Reuenthal shook his head. “I keep telling him to drop it.”

“Yeah,” Mittermeyer said.

“Are you going to drop engineering?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Why not? You like it?”

“Hah. No. It’s a long and stupid story.”

“Oh?”

“The short version is that my dad is an engineer, so…” He trailed off and shrugged, then stuck his hands in his pockets. He was so expressive, Reuenthal thought. Like Yang, in some ways, but Yang’s expressiveness was always strange and sometimes impossible for Reuenthal to interpret. Mittermeyer was as clear as the sun on a cloudless day.

“I see,” Reuenthal said. He figured Mittermeyer wouldn’t want to talk about it, so he left it at that.

“Yeah.” They had finally reached the point on the green where their paths would diverge. “I will see you around, then,” Mittermeyer said.

“Yes,” Reuenthal agreed. Mittermeyer flashed him a quick smile, then headed off down the path the other way. Reuenthal watched him go, his hands loosely in his pockets, his stride quick and sure.

* * *

After dinner, Reuenthal and Yang were sitting on the green outside the dorms. The last light of the August sun was sending their shadows far across the grass, and Yang was tilting his book to try to catch the best last light on the pages, though he gave up on this after a while and just leaned back on his hands and stared up at the blood-bright clouds on the edge of the sky.

“What did you think of my mentee?” Yang asked after a while.

“I like him,” Reuenthal said. This was something of an understatement. He had been thinking about Mittermeyer, and the image of him in the bar from earlier in the week would not leave Reuenthal’s head. He had been interesting then, but now that Reuenthal knew he had talent, real talent, there was more than just a passing interest.

“That’s high praise, coming from you.”

Reuenthal made a noncommittal noise, trying to downplay his high opinion of Mittermeyer.

“What?” Yang asked.

“Am I not allowed to say that?” Reuenthal asked.

“You usually don’t.” There was an odd tone in Yang’s voice. If Yang had been someone else, Reuenthal might have called it jealousy. But maybe he was projecting what he wanted Yang to feel.

“He has good intuition,” Reunenthal said, trying to justify his opinion without mentioning the fight that Yang didn’t know about.

Yang’s voice brightened, and he nodded. “I thought so, too. You should read the game transcript. I kept up a little commentary.”

“I look forward to doing so.”

They fell silent. Yang was looking around, watching the distant passers-by far across the green vanish into the buildings. Reuenthal was looking at Yang, who didn’t seem to notice or mind his quiet observation. But they were usually like this.

Without looking at Reuenthal, Yang asked, “Reuenthal, am I allowed to ask if you’re okay?”

Reuenthal twitched, startled, then laughed harshly, but Yang still wasn’t looking at him. He didn’t want to talk about this, but he wasn’t going to deny Yang at least a surface level inquiry. “You’re allowed to ask.”

“I was worried about you.”

Reuenthal scowled. “Pity is a poisonous emotion, and I find it unpleasant to be around people who insist on feeling it.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Yang looked strained and uncomfortable, still not looking at him, his hand that had been twisting in the grass finding the back of his head and pulling his hair there. 

Reuenthal always found that endearing, his awkward posture, so instead of saying anything harsh, he just said, “Oh?” giving Yang space to explain.

“I can’t pity you for things that you refuse to speak about.”

Reuenthal’s voice was sharp again. “I’m certain you can. Especially since you stayed with the countess.”

Yang flinched. “Are you accusing me of something?”

Again, Reuenthal tried to moderate his tone, though it was difficult. “Not you.”

“When the subject came up, I stopped her before she said anything.”

“You’re such a gentleman.” Reuenthal didn’t think that Yang was lying, but the countess probably had let more slip than Reuenthal wanted Yang to know. Reuenthal wished that Yang knew nothing, of course, but he himself had made that impossible. What had possessed him to make that whispered confession at the funeral? He had been knocked out of balance then, by his father, by the funeral, by Yang’s unexpected offering of companionship. Here at school, he was on stable ground, and he didn’t want anything to intrude on that stability, least of all Yang’s pity, clear and present, no matter how much he denied it.

“And a scholar,” Yang said.

The silence stretched out between them, Yang continuing to tug at his own hair.

Reuenthal tried to rescue the situation. “There’s nothing that you need to worry about. I’m fine.”

Yang finally looked over at him, his eyes dark and wide. “If you ever…” he began. He was tearing out fistfulls of grass now, anxious. “You know, I would do anything I could for you.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” Reuenthal said.

“Why not?”

“You might make a liar out of yourself.”

“I don’t think so,” Yang said, earnesty written plainly in his expression.

Reuenthal looked at him. Their eyes met, and Yang looked away. “You wouldn’t do something against your nature. That’s all I mean,” Reuenthal said, thinking of the one thing he wanted most from Yang, and the one thing that Yang would not give him.

“And what would be against my nature in helping a friend?”

“Don’t worry about it, von Leigh,” Reuenthal said. He stood and shook the grass off his pants. “I talk too much.”

The last of the sun’s rays dipped behind the buildings, and the green fell into deep shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mittermeyer...... I love you................
> 
> chapter title: https://youtu.be/uW18ujNGiN0
> 
> this story is generally a fun exercise in “what did yang know and when did he know it” and filling in gaps with as much plausible deniability that i’m not just retrofitting things to the existing structure as possible. hopefully it’s not too janky
> 
> thank you to Lydia for the beta read!


	9. To Witness the Act of Killing

_ September 476 I.C., Odin _

Mittermeyer took Reuenthal up on his offer to eat dinner with the group of sophomores pretty quickly, and from there it turned into him coming around to study together, and from there they would often go to Joseph’s as a group, and at that point there was no longer any pretension that Mittermeyer and Yang were mentee and mentor: they were just friends. Although they spent most of their time as a trio, on a few days a week, Reuenthal and Mittermeyer shared a lunch hour, and so they often spent it together. 

Today, it was pouring rain outside, the fat droplets splashing down the windowpanes, rendering the outside world a smeary and indistinct haze. Mittermeyer and Reuenthal were in the library, in the far back, behind the tall stacks crammed full of reference volumes that looked both ancient and untouched. This was a relatively private spot, and the library was mostly empty anyway, so both of them had felt confident sneaking their lunches in and taking up residence in this corner. Reuenthal was perched in a windowsill, one leg dangling to the ground, the other balancing his lunch on his lap, his shoulder pressed against the cold glass, leaving a steamy outline from his body heat. Mittermeyer was on the carpeted floor, leaning back against the shelves and looking up at Reuenthal to talk. They kept their voices low, but sound didn’t travel far here anyway.

“My mother called me last night,” Mittermeyer said, mouth half full of sandwich.

“Oh?” Reuenthal asked. “She harranguing you about your engineering grades?”

“No, that would be my dad,” Mittermeyer said.

“Missing her son, then, or is that too sentimental?” Reuenthal’s tone was unpleasantly harsh, but Mittermeyer didn’t seem to notice, and just laughed.

“I think that ‘sentimental’ and ‘pragmatic’ are opposites, and my mother has far more of one than the other.”

“Ah, so she’s calling to tell you that, since you’re no longer living at home, she’s going to rent your bedroom to make some extra cash.”

Mittermeyer laughed, which made him choke on his sandwich. “We’re middle class, not destitute,” he said.

“Being a small landlord is the epitome of middle class professions.”

“Well, you might be more right than you think,” Mittermeyer said. “One of my mother’s cousins died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Reuenthal said mechanically.

Mittermeyer shrugged. “I only ever met him a couple times,” he said. “Lived on the other side of Odin, you know.”

“Are you going to the funeral?”

“No,” Mittermeyer said. “I mean, there isn’t going to be a big one, anyway. He was in the fleet. And my mom’s side of the family is weird.”

“Conscripted, or…”

“No, voluntary service,” Mittermeyer said. “He was a lieutenant.”

“Commander, now, I assume.”

Mittermeyer shrugged. “I guess.”

“What did you say I was right about?”

“Oh, he has this kid, and apparently there’s no one except for my mom who was willing to take the kid in on a permanent basis.”

“Does this child have a name?”

“Presumably. My mom didn’t mention, though.”

“Not that I ever plan on having children,” Reuenthal said, which caused Mittermeyer to make a strange expression, “but if I did, and if I was breaking the news to my child that I was adopting a second one while the first was away at school, a name would be one of the things that I would mention. Along with all of the other pertinent details.”

“She was probably worried that I would be upset about it, so she just mentioned it offhand, like I somehow wouldn’t notice.”

“Are you upset about it?”

“If my mother wants to give her attention to someone other than me, that person is welcome to it.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, they’re probably not actually giving this kid my room, but they’re putting them somewhere.” He paused for a second, then squished the plastic wrap that had once held his sandwich and tucked it back into his bag. “It’s just weird.”

“I don’t disagree,” Reuenthal said, then fell silent, staring out the window at the rain coming down.

“Why don’t you want to have kids?” Mittermeyer asked suddenly.

This startled Reuenthal, who frowned. “Why would I want to?”

“I don’t know.”

“I have no desire to continue my bloodline,” Reuenthal said. “And I don’t like children.”

“Oh.” Mittermeyer seemed disappointed, somehow. His tone was strange, and he was looking out the window past Reuenthal.

“Why, do you have someone back home that you’re going to marry as soon as you graduate?” Reuenthal couldn’t keep the sourness out of his voice.

“No,” Mittermeyer said, a little too forcefully. “No.”

“Oh?”

It took a moment for Mittermeyer to respond. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I like kids. I guess I’ve always thought of myself having one, someday.” He picked at a loose thread in the carpet, pulling it until it began to run, leaving a white gash in the black floor, stretching out down the aisle between the two of them.

“That’s what you imagine your future as?” Reuenthal asked. “Domestic? Wife, kids, house? Some sort of middle class fantasy?”

Mittermeyer shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t really picture that, exactly. It might be nice.”

“What’s so appealing about it?”

Mittermeyer could probably feel Reuenthal’s scorn, but he kept talking, as though he was trying to dig himself out of the hole he had ended up in. “My mother used to have me volunteer at this after school program for elementary students,” Mittermeyer said. “I really liked it, I guess. Kids are great.”

“I find that hard to believe, since they turn into adults.”

“Maybe the best way to improve the world is to raise kids well, so that there will be better adults in the future.”

Reuenthal scoffed and looked out the window. “I’ll tell you this, Mittermeyer,” Reuenthal said, “There are plenty of entitled assholes who were raised in the happiest homes imaginable.” He lifted his chin. “No father can change his son’s nature.”

“Yeah.” Mittermeyer sighed. “That’s true.” He hesitated. “Still…”

“I hope for your sake that you find a wife who raises children well,” Reuenthal said, voice dry and flat. “Since the fleet will have you gone eleven months of the year.”

“I guess,” Mittermeyer said. “You’re right that it is stupid. But don’t you ever think about the future?”

“Certainly.”

“And you don’t ever picture yourself with a wife and family?”

“No,” Reuenthal said.

“Why not?”

“Because, Mittermeyer,” Reuenthal said, standing, “I do not want them.”

Mittermeyer scrambled to his feet as well. When he followed Reuenthal down the aisle, his foot caught on the string he had been tugging out of the carpet, and it ripped further, a spiderweb of white travelling across the dusty black expanse until it reached the wall. He hopped to untangle his foot, and cringed at the noise and destruction he had wrought. 

He followed Reuenthal out of the library, and they stood under the roof overhang for a second, the air damp and cold as the rain continued to pour down. Reuenthal didn’t know what he was waiting for. Maybe he was just deciding if it was better to suffer the indignity of running across campus, or the indignity of walking slowly and getting wetter.

“I get it,” Mittermeyer said after a moment, his voice quiet enough that Reuenthal almost didn’t hear him over the rain.

“Get what?”

“I guess I don’t really picture having a wife,” Mittermeyer said. He stared out at the rain. “But it seems like— it will happen, so…”

Reuenthal glanced at him but said nothing.

* * *

_October_ _476 I.C., Odin_

September slipped away, fall settling over the campus with a sense of routine. By the second half of October, Reuenthal might have sworn that his life had always consisted of classes with Yang, dinners with his friends, and late night studying sessions that often ended with Yang passing out in the lounge while Reuenthal and Mittermeyer quietly worked across from each other, occasionally speaking in low tones.

It was a good life, for all that Reuenthal wanted more out of it. He had begun, at some point, to nurture his enjoyment of the feeling of wanting. There was something delicious about hunger, after all.

He burned with the energy of it, and he tried to channel that energy into the rest of his life. He still hadn’t managed to beat Yang in any of the games they played, but he tried so ferociously that he sometimes did fluster and exhaust Yang, which was something, at least. He played Mittermeyer on some Saturdays, and Mittermeyer had gotten good enough that Reuenthal only won half the time.

If he could find enjoyment in wanting, there must be equal, painful pleasure in being bested. Still, if it was only to Yang and Mittermeyer that he even had a chance of losing, then that was all right. 

It was that vicious energy that filled him the morning of the horseback hunt at Neue Sanssouci. He and Mittermeyer were standing outside the gates of the IOA, waiting for the bus. The fog was so thick around them that Reuenthal’s hand passing through it felt like it carved a path through the air. The sun wasn’t up, so the only light was from the yellow lamps above their heads, and the rare car passing on the street.

“Is Leigh really going to skip this?” Mittermeyer asked, looking around at the assembled group.

“He’s probably just late,” Reuenthal said. “He’ll be here.”

“What will happen if he doesn’t come?”

“He’ll come. He’s trying to toe the line.”

Mittermeyer sighed, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and looked behind them again, trying to see through the fog into the grounds of the school.

“Worried about him, are you?” Reuenthal asked.

“You aren’t?”

“I’m not his keeper. If he makes the decision that it’s safer to skip than to come— he’s better at that kind of judgement call than I am.”

“No,” Mittermeyer said. “He just favors strategic disengagement. That’s not always the best choice.”

“It works out for him.”

“In SW.”

Reuenthal nodded. He wanted to change the topic, suddenly. If Yang wasn’t coming, they shouldn’t talk about Yang. He was restless, and excited, and Mittermeyer had mentioned the week before that he had taken both horseback riding and archery lessons at various points during his school days, so he was prepared in a way that Yang would never be. “Let’s catch a deer,” Reuenthal said. “You and I.”

Mittermeyer glanced up at him, startled. “Okay,” he said. Although he had been surprised, there was no hesitation in his voice whatsoever. Reuenthal liked that, a curl of excitement living in his stomach. He smiled at Mittermeyer, who smiled back. 

The bus pulled up, and students began to file on.

"Leigh not coming?" Reuenthal heard Gautier asked as he walked past. "Shame."

But as Mittemeyer was climbing the steps of the bus and making one more backwards glance at campus, Yang appeared through the fog, running full tilt and out of breath, his dress uniform a little haphazard and his hair flying everywhere. Mittermeyer's posture sank with relief, and Reuenthal greeted Yang. "We were placing bets on how many demerits you'd earn for skipping," he said as Yang came up behind him.

Yang laughed, still out of breath. "Overslept," he explained. "But I can't turn down a free brunch."

The ride to Neue Sanssouci was uneventful, and the sun rose over the fog, making it almost sparkle over the road and through the trees. The palace itself looked pristine in the early morning light, well tended grounds rising up to the imposing white facade.

Just like they had the year before, all the students lined up, and it was unsurprising when Kaiser Friedrich IV appeared. He looked the same as he had the year before, not too much older, and there was no change in his posture or slightly bored expression. He did this every year, after all, hundreds of students coming and going in his time, without much reason for him to remember any of them. The kaiser walked down the rows of students, greeting each year in turn.

Reuenthal’s back was stiff as a board, and he stared straight ahead. Luckily, this time when the kaiser came to greet the sophomores, there was no word about Reuenthal’s maternal grandfather whatsoever. Instead, the kaiser looked past Reuenthal and at Yang, standing uncomfortably at his right shoulder.

“Hank von Leigh, isn’t it?” the kaiser asked. The kaiser’s voice was curious, and Reuenthal could feel the group of students around him shifting with surprise, that Yang was being singled out once again.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Yang said, unable to disguise the discomfort in his voice. He wanted to be the center of attention even less than anyone else, Reuenthal was sure.

“Count Mariendorf speaks highly of you.” Of course he did.

“Thank you, sir.”

“This year, you will avoid needing the services of my personal physician, I trust?”

“I will try, Your Majesty.”

“Yes. I must hope that all my most promising future officers survive their school days.” And the kaiser sent such a scathing look down the row of sophomores that Reuenthal was sure that if there was any trouble from Ansbach, Gautier, or Dietch this year, there would be consequences. The sophomores shifted uneasily, but the kaiser was already turning away to speak to the freshmen, which meant Mittermeyer, as he had handily taken the first place spot.

At breakfast, the silent glares from Ansbach and his company were the only sign that any of the sophomores had any feelings at all about the kaiser’s comments to Yang. Reuenthal met Ansbach’s eyes cooly, as Yang didn’t even seem to notice he was being glared at, and Ansbach turned away.

The morning had warmed slightly by time they headed out to begin the hunt, though the weather was hovering on the edge of fog and light rain, a somewhat unpleasant state.

Their friend group started out as a bit of a pack, but after a little while, Eisenach trotted off to join the juniors, and Bittenfeld was distracted by something, chased after by Wahlen. This suited Reuenthal fine.

It was a peaceful morning, though the desire to actually catch a deer hadn’t left Reuenthal, and he held his bow loosely in his lap in preparation. He fell slightly behind Mittermeyer and Yang, so that he could watch them as they rode.

Yang was a clumsy rider, jolting up and down with every step of the horse, holding onto the pommel with white knuckles. He always cringed and ducked when his horse wandered too close to tree branches, even though his head was far enough below them that it wasn’t necessary. There was something very endearing about it, and when he turned around in the saddle to look at Reuenthal, he was smiling, despite how out of his element he was.

Mittermeyer, on the other hand, was sure in the saddle, and Reuenthal half expected him to break into a wild gallop at any moment, his blond hair flying back around his head to match the horse’s mane. He was handsome and sturdy, and when Reuenthal nudged his own horse forward to come up to Mittermeyer’s side, Mittermeyer leaned towards him to bump him with his elbow. “Not seeing any deer, are you?” But his tone was cheerful, and his eyes were bright and happy in the grey morning light.

“I’m sure we’ll find one,” Reuenthal said. “And then we’ll see if you’re as good of an archer as you claim to be.”

Mittermeyer just laughed at that.

After about an hour and a half of riding aimlessly through the huge estate, Reuenthal caught sight of something moving off in the underbrush. He held up his hand, and Mittermeyer and Yang came to a quiet halt behind him. They both looked where he was pointing, seeing the buck’s antlers bobbing up and down through the pines. Reuenthal and Mittermeyer exchanged a silent glance, and without speaking, nudged their horses in opposite directions, heading off to circle the deer, the same tactics they might have used against a fleet of enemy ships in SW class. 

Reuenthal glanced back at Yang, who was hesitating and watching them go. Reuenthal jerked his head in the direction of the deer, knowing that Yang would understand that he would need to bring up the middle, and then Reuenthal urged his horse forward and away, silent through the woods. 

He pulled an arrow out of his quiver and silently dismounted. He crouched and pulled the string of his bow taught, muscles in his arms straining, waiting to hear the crashing sounds of Yang herding the deer forward. He knew that somewhere across from him, Mittermeyer was doing the same thing.

Yang made plenty of noise, and the deer moved forward towards where Reuenthal was waiting. He held his breath, watched the deer’s pace, then loosed the arrow. It flew through the air almost noiselessly, and struck the deer in the dead center of its chest. It made a noise that Reuenthal wasn’t even aware that deer could make, and then ran, flying off through the woods, Yang chasing it on his horse so that he wouldn’t lose it.

Reuenthal stood from his hiding place in the underbrush, and saw that Mittermeyer was doing the same, a triumphant grin on his face.

“I got it,” Mittermeyer said.

“So did I,” Reuenthal replied. They looked at each other across the distance for a second. Reuenthal’s heart was pounding. Mittermeyer had his bow still in his hand, and a second arrow dangling from his fingertips. He must have kept it out of his quiver in case he missed his first shot. Reuenthal wished he could have seen Mittermyer loose his arrow. He could picture it, but imagination was less good than a memory to savor. He looked at Mittermeyer for a long moment, and could see that Mittermeyer was breathing heavily.

Mittermeyer broke their mutual contemplation when he said, “We should go find Leigh.”

“Yeah,” Reuenthal agreed, though he was reluctant to turn away from Mittermeyer. They both did, though, finding their waiting horses and remounting, then meeting up so that they could ride side by side, following the trail of blood on the ground. As they rode, they both kept glancing at each other, eyes meeting, and a kind of electric jolt went through Reuenthal each time. He kept himself steady on his horse.

Eventually, they found Yang, standing with a knife held loosely in his hands, looking at the dead deer on the ground. The knife was clean; he hadn’t used it for anything. Reuenthal wondered why he had it out.

“Good job,” Yang said. “You did it.” The lines were accompanied by a weak smile, and he seemed to realize then that he was holding a knife, so he went to slip it back into his saddlebag.

Reuenthal and Mittermeyer dismounted. As Mittermeyer went to crouch over their catch, Reuenthal walked over to Yang, who was fussing with the straps on his saddle and not looking at Mittermeyer or the deer.

“Still concerned about the hunters with bows and arrows?” Reuenthal asked, low enough that Mittermeyer probably wouldn’t hear him.

Yang jumped, not realizing that Reuenthal was so close, then shook his head. He turned, and his eyes flicked between Reuenthal and the deer, dead on the ground, like he was asking for Reuenthal to understand something. He did. Of course he did. 

Reuenthal could vividly remember the winter solstice, when he had seen the deer slaughtered, its wide eyes like Yang’s. Had Yang had his knife out to do that same deed? The image seized Reuenthal, and that was all he wanted to see, suddenly. Yang, bloody knife in hand, like a priest of the ideal. The vision was too much, too strange and thrilling and impossible, but Reuenthal couldn’t get it out of his head regardless. He was only shaken out of it when Yang touched his arm.

“Not you,” Yang said. “I’m never worried about you.”

Reuenthal leaned towards him. “You could be a hunter, too.” He desperately wanted to call Yang by his name, but Mittermeyer was right there, so Reuenthal reluctantly refrained.

Yang shook his head. “Go help Mittermeyer,” he said. “I’ll find the tarp so we can bring that back.”

It took some effort to tie the deer up and hitch the tarp to their horses so that they could drag it back to the buildings of Neue Sanssouci. They were congratulated on their catch, and someone in the kitchens butchered the deer for them, and had all the spoils sent off to Mittermeyer’s family and, although Reuenthal wasn’t sure that he would want it, Count Mariendorf. It wasn’t as though Reuenthal’s father would appreciate the venison, and the three students had no reason to keep it for themselves. They were also presented with a bottle of whiskey, for being the first students of the day to catch anything.

The remainder of the time at the palace was spent wandering around, waiting for the bus to take them back to the dorms. There was a weird tension in the air, Reuenthal thought, though perhaps he was imagining it. He kept looking at Mittermeyer, who seemed to be full of energy, and Yang, who was quiet and contemplative in a way that Reuenthal hadn’t seen before.

As the trio walked back towards the dorms after their bus ride home, Reuenthal held up the bottle. “Shall we celebrate?”

“It’s your prize,” Yang said. “If you want to share, I certainly won’t refuse.”

“You helped,” Mittermeyer insisted. “You chased it down.” Yang glanced at Mittermeyer with a wry smile.

“Come on,” Reuenthal said. “It really doesn’t matter.” He led them to his dorm room, which was larger than Mittermeyer’s and far neater than Yang’s, and let them both in. Yang immediately climbed up on the desk to sit, a habit that Reuenthal could not understand why he persisted in. As Reuenthal got out some glasses from his cabinet, Mittermeyer sat on his bed, kicking his shoes off so that he could also sit cross legged without getting Reuenthal’s bedspread dirty. Reuenthal poured the three of them drinks, then sat down next to Mittermeyer, a little closer than he normally would.

Yang raised his glass. “To Oskar von Reuenthal and Wolfgang Mittermeyer,” he said. “Congratulations.”

“And to Hank von Leigh,” Mittermeyer reminded him, raising his own glass.

Yang’s eyes found Reuenthal’s for a fraction of a second, and Reuenthal’s mouth twitched in a suppressed smile. Some of the pain had gone out of the memory, and so he could see the humor in raising his glass to Yang and saying, “To Hank von Leigh,” in his dry tone.

Yang rolled his eyes. “Prosit to us all, then.”

“Prosit!” Mittermeyer and Reuenthal said at the same time, leaning forward together to knock their glasses against Yang’s.

The alcohol was good. High quality stuff. The kaiser didn’t skimp in his prizes for students. 

They talked about inconsequential things for a while. The alcohol sat warm in Reuenthal’s stomach, and he kept looking at Mittermeyer, watching him tilt his glass in his hands, raising it to his lips. Yang took off his jacket; Reuenthal watched that, too.

After a few drinks, Mittermeyer was saying something about missing their usual Saturday game. He had wanted to play against Wahlen.

“You’d beat him. You’re better than he is,” Reuenthal said without hesitation.

“That’s not the point,” Mittermeyer said.

“I don’t know why you like playing so much. GMing is way more interesting,” Yang said, looking idly at some schoolwork that Reuenthal had left out on his desk.

“I think all the history you read has permanently changed the shape of your brain,” Reuenthal said. “You like the strangest things.” He was amused, rather than serious, and Yang smiled at him.

“It’s only strange compared to people here. Don’t you think that most other people in the galaxy would prefer not to make war?”

“We’re not like most other people,” Reuenthal said firmly. He looked in Yang’s eyes when he said this, and when Yang looked away, he turned to Mittermeyer for confirmation.

Mittermeyer didn’t address Reuenthal’s point directly, shying away from the implication. “You’re in the wrong school,” he said to Yang. “How did you even get here?”

“Long story,” Yang muttered, looking down into his drink.

“You must be a chronically unlucky man,” Reuenthal said, “to have talent for something that you don’t enjoy.” 

“I’m not saying I don’t enjoy it,” Yang said. He shook his head and drank. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Forgive me, I guess.” Though Reuenthal didn’t know what he was asking forgiveness for, when Yang looked at him, Reuenthal cocked his head in acknowledgement.

Wistfully, Mittermeyer said, “It’s better than the other way around: to love something, but have no talent.”

“The heart wants what it wants.” Reuenthal watched Mittermeyer’s hands. “It’s fortunate that, in most places, talent can be substituted for hard work and dedication.”

“Not in SW, I don’t think,” Mittermeyer said.

Yang nodded. “To an extent. There’s some intuition that I don’t think can be learned.” Yang would be the one to know that. He operated on a higher level than everyone else, in a way that Reuenthal couldn’t fully understand.

“It must be a rare thing,” Mittermeyer said.

“As I said, we are not like most other people,” Reuenthal said again.

“Can I propose a stupid idea?” Yang asked.

Reuenthal leaned back on the bed a little. “Propose whatever you like.”

“Remember the first time you two played each other?” he asked, nodding at Reuenthal and Mittermeyer. Mittermeyer looked at Reuenthal, who nodded.

“Of course.”

“We talked about how the practicum doesn’t actually reflect reality. Maybe we should… try to play it as though it did. At least in our games. No arbitrary starting conditions or win conditions. Make it less false.” He was speaking slowly, as though piecing the idea together word by word, but Mittermeyer was nodding along.

“How would you judge it?” he asked.

“It would have to be an ongoing campaign,” Reuenthal pointed out. “Each engagement would just have to be a piece of the whole, so that the consequences of wins and losses would mean something.” He was intrigued by the idea. Yang had always been better at individual encounters, tactics, but Reuenthal wondered if that might be covering up an equivalent weakness in overall strategic thinking. After all, Yang relied so heavily on the tactical retreat, the choosing not to engage, that Reuenthal might have a chance at winning a war, even if the individual battles tended towards inconclusive. 

“I just think we should, if we’re going to, you know— if we’re not playing for status, we should try to actually learn something.” Yang was tripping over his words, cheeks flushed, eyes shining.

“This kind of thing is the reason you should be number one, but you’re not,” Reuenthal said. “In a fairer world.”

Yang looked up at him. “I don’t think we’ve ever claimed to live in a fair world.”

“No, we certainly don’t.”

Mittermeyer was turning the idea over in his mind. “I like the idea,” he said. “But it would be a tricky thing to get going.”

“It’s just an idle thought,” Yang said with a shrug.

“Your idle thoughts often have more value than most people’s deliberate efforts,” Reuenthal said. Yang lowered his eyes. “We can talk to everyone else about it when we see them.”

Yang finished his drink. He put his glass down on Reuenthal’s desk with a heavy hand. “I just realized that I’m starving,” Yang said. If his stomach hadn’t chosen just that moment to grumble, Reuenthal might have thought that he was trying to escape. Yang’s expression had returned to its usual, guileless open one. “Before I get too drunk to move, I’m going to change into a less gross outfit, then run down to the commissary. You want anything?”

“Thanks for looking out for our health,” Reuenthal said. “You know what I like.”

Yang nodded. “Of course.”

“Can you get me a soft pretzel?” Mittermeyer asked. “And the, uh, cherry soda.”

“Sure.”

“Healthy dinner,” Reuenthal commented dryly as Yang headed out.

Mittermeyer laughed shifting on the bed. “And what’s he getting you?”

“I have no idea,” Reuenthal said. “I look forward to seeing what he comes up with.”

“He does know you well, doesn’t he?” Mittermeyer said. There was something in his voice, in the way he looked at the door where Yang had just vanished. It made Reuenthal’s heart beat faster.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“He left his jacket,” Mittermeyer pointed out.

A slightly strained silence fell between them. Reuenthal looked at Mittermeyer, who had put his glass down on the windowsill and was twisting the bedspread with two fingers, looking at the knicknacks on Reuenthal’s bookshelf across the room.

“I wish I could have seen you kill the deer,” Reuenthal said, breaking the silence.

Mittermeyer twitched, surprised. “What?”

“I would have liked to see it,” he said again.

“So you could critique my form?” Mittermeyer asked. 

“No,” Reuenthal said. He paused for a second. “I imagine that your form was perfect. But imagination is inferior to memory.”

“Oh.” Mittermeyer didn’t seem to know how to respond. “I’m glad you had your shot, too, though. I might have missed.”

“You didn’t.”

“Still,” he said. “It was good to do it together.” He looked away.

Reuenthal made a noise low in his throat. “Perhaps. But there is occasionally a greater pleasure in watching someone talented.”

“That’s why you like Leigh so much.” Mittermeyer’s hands were still fiddling with the bedspread. Reuenthal leaned slightly forward.

“Leigh has no interest in me watching him perform,” Reuenthal said. If Mittermeyer had gotten a wrong impression about the nature of his relationship with Yang, Reuenthal wanted to nip that in the bud. “Least of all at archery.”

“And you think I do?”

“Do you?” Reuenthal asked, his voice low.

“I could ask you the same question.”

“What do you want to see me do, Wolf?” Reuenthal asked. Mittermeyer’s breath caught at the sudden first name address.

“I don’t know,” Mittermeyer said. He looked at Reuenthal, finally. His eyes were wide, and he was very stiff, unsure, perhaps. “What would you do?”

“Anything,” Reuenthal said. 

“Oskar…” Mittermeyer said, which was enough for Reuenthal. He reached across the distance between them and put his hand on Mittermeyer’s. Mittermeyer shivered, but he didn’t move. Reuenthal looked into Mittermeyer’s light eyes as he lifted Mittermeyer’s hand, almost excruciatingly slowly, and brought it to his lips.

Mittermeyer’s hand was heavy and hot, and he inhaled sharply when Reuenthal kissed his knuckles. Mittermeyer moved, and Reuenthal thought he was going to pull away, but instead his hand moved to Reuenthal’s cheek, his thumb ghosting over his lips.

They locked eyes for a single, silent moment, and then they were both leaning forward towards each other, nearly knocking noses in their haste. Mittermeyer’s lips were chapped, and the taste of whiskey was still heavy in both their mouths. The experience of kissing Mittermeyer was incomparable. A dam had burst inside of Reuenthal: a lifetime’s worth of tension free at once, at least for now. 

He never wanted to stop kissing Mittermeyer, not like he would have been able to anyway, as Mittermeyer’s other hand had joined the first to clutch both sides of Reuenthal’s face, holding him in place. His hands were so hot and solid. Reuenthal braced himself, his hands on Mittermeyer’s hips as he nipped at Mittermeyer’s lower lip. Mittermeyer made a muffled sound that Reuenthal could feel in his own chest.

The sensations were almost overwhelming enough that Reuenthal was blinded to the outside world, but a lifetime of paranoia meant that he was attuned to the sound of the door handle jiggling, and his eyes flew open wide as the door opened. Mittermeyer hadn’t noticed, and was still kissing him, holding Reuenthal’s face. But Reuenthal could see Yang standing in the doorway, not crossing the threshold, a horrified expression on his face. They were both frozen there for a second, and then Yang turned on his heel and shut the door, leaving Mittermeyer and Reuenthal alone once more.

Mittermeyer had remained completely oblivious, somehow, and Reuenthal, in his usual secretive way, decided that telling him that they had been walked in on could wait. He was used to compartmentalizing these small moments of fear, so he pushed it out of his own mind. His fingers dug into Mittermeyer’s thighs, though, and he grew more intense and forceful, scraping his teeth across Mittermeyer’s jaw towards his ear, until Mittermeyer, breathing heavily, pushed him away after some time.

Reuenthal leaned back on his hands, smug satisfaction on his face. Mittermeyer was flushed, and ran his hands over his face. “We should stop,” Mittermeyer said, clearly trying to get himself under control. “Leigh will be back soon.”

“Doubt it,” Reuenthal said. He poured them both new drinks. Mittermeyer took the offered glass and drank, far more quickly than Reuenthal did.

“Why do you say that?”

“I bet he sat down on his bed and fell asleep,” Reuenthal lied.

Mittermeyer managed a chuckle. “Yeah. Maybe.” Still, when Reuenthal went to put his hand on Mittermeyer’s thigh, Mittermeyer shivered and gently pushed his hand off, shaking his head. “Not right now,” he said. 

Reuenthal shrugged and sat back again, just looking. “As you like.”

“Have you ever…?” Mittermeyer asked.

“Yes,” Reunthal said shortly.

“Oh.”

“You?”

“No, never,” Mittermeyer said.

Reuenthal felt somewhat triumphant at that, and his curl of a smile made Mittermeyer look away. The silence that fell between them was not really awkward, but the enthusiasm that Mittermeyer had clearly had while kissing him had fallen away, and he was staring in his empty glass. Reuenthal refilled it. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Mittermeyer said, hasty to reassure Reuenthal, even though Reuenthal needed no reassurance. He shook his head. “I just…” He ran his hand through his hair. “What am I going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“About this.”

“There’s nothing to do,” Reuenthal said. 

“You’re not worried?”

“I’m not sure what you’re worried about.”

“If anyone finds out, they’ll throw us out.”

Reuenthal shrugged. It was too late to worry about that now, considering that Yang had already seen them. Any consequences were already barreling down the line, too fast to stop, so there was no point in Mittermeyer worrying. “Stop thinking about it,” Reuenthal said.

“How can I not?”

“You weren’t a moment ago.”

Mittermeyer chuckled again at that. “True, I guess.” He finished his drink. “But it’s easy to not think when I’m, uh, distracted.”

Reuenthal’s smile was a hungry one, and when Mittermeyer met his eyes, he smiled too. 

“I do have to think about it, though,” Mittermeyer said, with a finality incongruous with his expression. “I’m too drunk.”

Reuenthal picked up the bottle of whiskey. “We’ve barely gone through that much of it.” This was not true, but he wanted to say anything to get Mittermeyer to stop shifting on the bed, making to get up.

Mittermeyer shook his head, finally standing. “I can’t think straight, and I need to.” He looked at Reuenthal, shook his head again with a weird smile. “You make it difficult, though.”

“Oh?” Reuenthal asked. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow?”

“Probably,” Reuenthal agreed. “I’ll text you.”

“Yeah. If Leigh comes back, tell him I went to bed, okay?” He went to the door, twisted the handle but didn’t open the door. “Goodnight,” he said, meeting Reuenthal’s eyes.

Reuenthal nodded, and Mittermeyer left. His footsteps were loud and hurried, cut off as soon as the door finished swinging shut.

Alone in his room now, and sure that Yang was not coming back, Reuenthal laid back on his bed. Now that Mittermeyer wasn’t there to give him something else to focus on, the fear sat heavily in Reuenthal’s gut. He didn’t think that Yang was likely to do anything drastic, at least not right away, but he was sure he would find out in the morning.

He had been right not to tell Mittermeyer, Reuenthal decided. From the anxious way Mittermeyer was already thinking over potential consequences, knowing that they had been seen probably would have caused him to become unreasonably upset. Tainting the experience of the evening probably would have broken something fragile. He didn’t need to know, especially not if Reuenthal could talk to Yang, convince him not to do anything about what he had seen.

The expression on Yang’s face had been so horrified and disgusted, Reuenthal thought. Mouth open, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. Considering that Yang was usually so placid, it was shocking to witness. He was probably disturbed that Reuenthal was taking advantage of his mentee. 

It burned, to know that this had probably cost Reuenthal his closest friend, but it was worth it, or would be, if he could convince Yang to not do anything. Even if their friendship was gone, Reuenthal did think that he could probably offer Yang enough to keep quiet. Continued protection from the rest of the sophomore class, maybe. If Yang turned Reuenthal in, Yang would be an easy target, and he might not even survive the rest of their school years. Reuenthal would just have to find some way of expressing that to Yang such that it didn’t sound like he was making threats, and was instead making offers. Reuenthal was in no position to make threats.

There was, of course, a possibility that Yang would report Reuenthal to the administration, and he would simply not be believed. After all, in a contest of Yang’s word against Reuenthal’s, it was likely that Reuenthal would come out on top. But Reuenthal didn’t want even that kind of taint associated with him, and it was too risky to rely on the hatred that the administration had for Yang.

Reuenthal eventually stripped off his dirty clothes and went to sleep. His dreams were confusing, though, a mishmash of imagery.

They were in his house, Yang and Reuenthal, in Reuenthal’s bedroom. The door was open. Reuenthal hated that the door was open. Yang stood in the doorway. Reuenthal hated that Yang was standing in the doorway. He was dressed in his dress uniform, the one he had been wearing earlier, his jacket open on his chest, and he was holding his hunting knife, like he had earlier in the day. Reuenthal liked that he was holding the knife. Even in the dream, it sent a thrill through him.

“Are you coming in?” Reuenthal asked.

Yang took a step forward, and the dream clicked forward a step in time. The threshold was crossed, moving from dream to nightmare. But in some ways, that meant that Reuenthal could relax and let it happen to him, as it always did.

It was dark in the room, and Reuenthal could barely see Yang’s face. He kept coming closer to Reuenthal, who was sitting on the bed with his hands grasping the sheets. It seemed to take forever for Yang to reach him. When he finally did, Yang leaned over him.

Reuenthal’s heart was pounding, and his whole body was on fire as Yang pressed one hand to his chest and shoved him backwards, falling endlessly, the ground dropping out from underneath him, it felt like. They were no longer in his room, just some void, and Reuenthal felt outside of himself as Yang raised the knife to Reuenthal’s face.

“Which one?” Yang asked, speaking for the first time. He held the tip of the knife underneath Reuenthal’s black eye, then underneath his blue one. “This one?”

The knife gleamed in Reuenthal’s vision, and Yang’s hand burned on his chest. Reuenthal opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. They were both frozen there, the knife pressed to the corner of Reuenthal’s blue eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reuenthal’s eyes were already a major symbol in the source text. I have taken it upon myself to play with that symbol a little bit here though. in canon, the black eye is a purely negative symbol that represents reuenthal’s mother’s infidelity and thus every nasty, “anti-social” (in the classical sense) thing about reuenthal, where his blue eye represents, well, you know, rightness. this is such a questionable symbol, esp when it comes to like... ok well he has felix with elfriede, and that’s terrible, but he’s a little blue eyed baby, raised by the blue eyed mittermeyers... ok there’s too much to get into with this because it makes me shriek like a gibbon
> 
> anyway, here reuenthal’s black eye still does represent these othering qualities, but since he has this othered companion in Yang, this darkness and otherness becomes a connection and shared point of, not pride exactly, but something. his blue eye still represents society, lightness, straightness, but it’s compared to his mother and father, and his father especially is a pretty shitty person. but it’s also like mittermeyer, who is, of the three of them, most attached to the “pro-social” way of doing things. so there’s a tension there.
> 
> like i said. we’re paying attention to the light vs darkness symbols, right?
> 
> reuenthal ‘s feelings for yang are complicated. and by complicated i mean. horny, conflicted, and mentally ill. it happens to the best of us.
> 
> thank you to lydia for the beta read!


	10. Better to Be Hated Than Loved for What You’re Not

Yang did not show up to physicals the next morning, which Reuenthal thought was a very bad sign. He had been intending to corner Yang afterwards, but since he didn’t show up, Reuenthal had no choice but to try to contact him. In one of the five minute breaks they had during physicals, he pulled out his phone and texted Yang, hoping that he would respond.

> I would like to speak with you at some point, if possible.

By the time that physicals were over, and Yang had not yet responded to that message, Reuenthal grew first anxious, then annoyed. He tried to put himself in Yang’s shoes, to think about who he would report to, if he was going to report, and he decided that the most likely person would be Yang’s taciturn mentor, Eisenach.

Reuenthal texted him, too.

> Eisenach, has Leigh spoken to you since yesterday?

< no, why

> I need to speak with him urgently, and he’s not answering my messages.

> And he missed physicals.

< what do you need to talk to him about so urgently

> It’s personal.

< had a lovers’ spat, did you?

< i’m sure he’s just sleeping in

< since he misses physicals constantly anyway

> If he talks to you, please tell him to get in contact with me.

< it is too early in the morning to be mediating Leigh’s problems, you know

> It’s almost noon.

< lol

< i’ll talk to him

Reuenthal was too annoyed with Eisenach to say thank you, so he just put his phone away and went to find lunch. He got a sandwich from the dining hall, and then left with it, returning to his dorm, since he had no desire to run into Mittermeyer, at least right now.

Since no administrator came to his room to drag him out of it and send him packing for indecent behavior, Reuenthal figured that the world was not collapsing, and he tried to get some homework done.

His phone sat innocuously on his desk, along with Yang’s folded jacket.

His phone buzzed.

< just woke up

< I’m about to get lunch

< haven’t eaten since yesterday morning

< I think I can safely make the assumption that you would prefer to meet after that

< let me know where/when

Yang didn’t sound like he was lying, but it was impossible to tell over text. Still, Reuenthal had no option except to respond.

> I can meet you at Eaglehead park when you’re done with your lunch.

Eaglehead was a little ways off campus, and Reuenthal didn’t know how long it would take for Yang to eat, so he left right away, bringing Yang’s jacket with him, so that he could return it. When he got there, he leaned against the brick wall that marked the park’s entrance from the street, and watched the passers by. The day was bright but chilly, and a stiff wind rattled the few remaining orange leaves on the trees.

Yang appeared after quite some time, walking down the street with his hands in his pockets. When Reuenthal saw him, he straightened, and held out Yang’s jacket when he arrived.

“Thanks,” Yang said, taking it. He rifled around in the jacket pocket for a second and pulled out his charge card, holding it up. “This was what I was looking for.” His tone was neutral, but Reuenthal could tell he was working hard to keep it that way.

They were still in too public of a position to actually talk, so Reuenthal nodded and set off down the path into the park, leading them off the main trail and onto one of the smaller, more private pathways. Yang followed. Reuenthal had been worried for a second that he wouldn’t, but he just tagged along, a step or so behind Reuenthal, until they had walked for about half a kilometer, and there was no one else anywhere in sight.

“Have you spoken to Mittermeyer?” Reuenthal finally asked. 

Yang seemed startled at the question. “No, why?”

“He doesn’t know that you saw.”

“Oh.” Yang was clearly confused at that, which Reuenthal could understand, but Mittermeyer had been thoroughly distracted, and Yang had been quiet when he opened the door. “Was he confused when I didn’t come back?”

“I told him you had probably sat down on your bed and fallen asleep,” Reuenthal said.

“That ended up being basically true, so your conscience can be clean in that respect.”

“In that respect.” Reuenthal couldn’t help the bitterness in his voice, even though he had come here to essentially beg Yang, he was finding it difficult. Even though he had seen Yang’s face, the disgust in his expression, he had thought, he had had half a hope, that maybe, maybe Yang wouldn’t—

After all, he hadn’t reported Reuenthal after New Year’s. But perhaps it was the involvement of Mittermeyer, whom Yang felt responsible for. That might have made it different. He could forgive Reuenthal for personal transgressions, in the same way he forgave Ansbach and his crew for trying to murder him, but it was different when it was Mittermeyer.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Yang said. He seemed put out, and he sighed. “Look, Reuenthal, you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to do anything.” He kicked at some of the leaves on the ground, the wind picking them up and sending them off down the path.

“Why not?”

“What do you mean, ‘why not?’” Yang’s tone was harsher than Reuenthal had ever remembered hearing before.

“It would be the reasonable thing for you to do.”

“I don’t even know why you would think that.”

“If I was sent away, you would be number one by default.”

“This isn’t about the stupid ranks!” Yang was almost yelling, and Reuenthal hastily glanced around the path to make sure there was no one in earshot. There wasn’t.

“It’s about something,” Reuenthal said harshly. As clearly as he could, he said, “I apologize for allowing you to see me behave in a way that disturbs you.”

“I’m not ‘disturbed.’” Yang’s voice was harsh, too.

“Disgusts, then.” That was the emotion, the one writ clear across Yang’s face. “And I apologize for putting your mentee in a compromising position.”

“Will you stop, Reuenthal?” Yang was loud again, and then he paused and shook his head, his hand finding his hair to tug on it wildly. He was upset, far more than Reuenthal had ever seen him. Not even when he was bleeding out on the forest floor had he been anything close to this unhappy. “I’m not—“

Reuenthal cut him off. “You are upset.”

“Just because I’m upset doesn’t mean I’m going to ruin your life!”

Unfortunately, Reuenthal could not trust that that was true. “Again, I have to ask, why not?”

“You don’t have to ask that, because it’s a stupid question!”

“It’s not.” It was reasonable, Reuenthal thought, to want to have some measure of understanding of what the rules were in the game.

“I can’t imagine why you would need to know my reasons.”

“So that, in the future, I can avoid doing things that would cause those reasons to stop being in play.”

Yang stopped short, breathing heavily. “I am not going to stand here and dictate terms of surrender to you.” He was tense, like he could have at any moment struck Reuenthal. His voice was falsely even when he said, “It is cruel of you to imply that my word is worth so little.”

Sometimes, the best thing to do was apologize, so Reuenthal did, even though it must have rang as false to Yang as it did to him. “I apologize.” He started walking again, and Yang followed him.

Reuenthal was silent, waiting for Yang to collect himself enough to respond.

“Look, Reuenthal,” Yang began, then paused and took a breath. The hand that wasn’t tangled in his hair was clenched into a fist by his side. “Even without getting into the rest of it, you could just as easily denounce me.”

That was the Yang that Reuenthal knew. He had honestly forgotten that he had compromising information on Yang: his name. “Mutually assured destruction,” he muttered.

“Will you cut it out?” Yang asked, voice annoyed again suddenly. “I only said that first in case it was the one thing your stubborn brain is willing to accept, but that’s not even the real reason, okay?”

He was kicking at the ground still, and looked like he was trying to say something else, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly for a second, so Reuenthal gave him time to compose himself.

“I told you my name because I trusted you,” Yang said, the words coming slowly, painfully. “You’re my best friend. You saved my life. I’m not going to throw that away over…”

“My immorality?”

Yang’s voice was low and angry when he said, “I’m not Rudolph von Goldenbaum.” Reuenthal looked over at Yang. His eyes were narrowed, and he was looking at the ground. “I don’t care if you’re a homosexual. Or Mittermeyer, for that matter.”

Reuenthal crossed his arms and pointed out the obvious. “You’re angry, though.”

“You don’t understand!”

“No,” Reuenthal said. “I think it’s you who doesn’t understand.” He couldn’t help but be angry, now, at the way Yang was refusing to address the issue. “I accidentally placed myself in a compromising position. You have power over me, and you’re angry. It’s a dangerous combination.”

Yang deflated a little, shoulders slumping, maybe deliberately relaxing. “I’m not angry at you. I swear.” He looked up at the sky, at the puffy white clouds skating over the dark, bare branches.

“Mittermeyer, then?”

“No.”

“Then you’re right. I don’t understand.”

Yang sighed. “I’m angry at myself more than I am at you.”

“I can’t imagine why.” 

He was silent for a long second. “I’ve spent the past year being a complete idiot,” Yang said. “I should apologize to you for that, because I really have no excuse.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Reuenthal was sure that he sounded as confused as he suddenly felt. Once again, Yang had pulled the rug out from under him, made him lose the stable footing he had thought he had in this conversation. Reuenthal understood disgust. Reuenthal understood anger. He understood bargaining and pleading and power and mutually assured destruction, and what he had originally come to do, which was threaten Yang with the force of the anger of the sophomore class. He did not understand why Yang was suddenly apologizing to him, for… what? “You haven’t behaved in any way that’s improper.”

“Last New Year’s,” Yang began.

Reuenthal’s breath caught in his throat. So, they were going to talk about that.

Yang plowed on, though he had glanced at Reuenthal with his inhale of breath. “You were trying to kiss me, weren’t you?”

What was Yang trying to make Reuenthal do, by saying it aloud? It wasn’t as though this hadn’t been the invisible wall standing in between them for months. Yang knew. Reuenthal had already apologized. He had thought the rejection had been the end of it, and he had tried to leave it at that. Reuenthal didn’t want to say it aloud, because that made the rejection real again. “I shouldn’t have.”

In a rush, Yang said, “I didn’t understand what was going on. I…” He sucked in a deep breath, and then said, “You should have tried it again when I was sober, is all.”

“Oh.” Reuenthal closed his eyes, months of mixed signals resolving themselves in his brain. He wanted to hit something, or he wanted to be hit. He hated himself for stupidity, for not understanding.

It wasn’t really anyone’s fault, which made it worse. It had all seemed so simple and clear a moment ago, that he had been rejected, and Yang had been enough of a friend to ignore it, to forget about it, to not destroy Reuenthal’s life over it. And Reuenthal had known, deep in his bones, that this was not the kind of thing that they would ever talk about, not openly, because the rules of silence were mutually and well understood.

He had thought they had talked about it, on the morning after it had happened. Reuenthal had apologized, and Yang had accepted his apology, and that had been it.

Yang continued. “I guess, I know you were trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t understand.” He was nearly pulling his hair out. “I was stupid, okay? And then I spent a year wondering what was going on, and neither of us could say anything, and now it’s this. That’s all. It’s not you.” He was nearly plaintive.

Reuenthal’s throat was constricted, he could barely breathe. “Wen-li,” he said.

“Don’t. Please.” Yang’s voice was choked as well, He jammed his hands back into his pockets. “Mittermeyer is a lot less stupid than I am.”

“I’m sorry,” Reunthal finally said.

“Stop apologizing. You didn’t— there’s nothing that you’ve done wrong. You can have this,” he stressed.

What could Reuenthal even say to that? “Thank you, then, if you won’t let me apologize. Though I feel that having your permission makes it worse.”

“Why?”

“Because it feels like admitting defeat.” Somehow. He was losing to Yang again. He always was.

“Not everything is a game,” Yang said, bitter. “And if it was, it isn’t one that I would want to play.”

“Why?”

Yang let out a rush of breath. “I’m not blind. I saw the way you were acting with Mittermeyer. He makes you happy; you make him happy. I’m not going to try to take that away from you just because…” And he wasn’t looking at Reuenthal, turning away from him.

Reuenthal didn’t say anything for a long second. He changed the topic slightly. This was too painful for the both of them, clearly. “I thought I had really disgusted you,” he finally said. “I thought I really had crossed a line.” With this new information, the look that had been on Yang’s face the night before could be understood differently, not disgusted, but something else.

“What, now?” Yang asked.

“Now, and on New Year’s.”

Yang shook his head. “I wish I had made it clearer that it was just confusion. I wanted to say something to you, but I couldn’t figure it out.” He paused. “You didn’t disgust me. I don’t even think you could.”

The rush of warmth in Reuenthal’s chest was painful, but he smiled, biting his tongue. “Perhaps I tried because you are the only person who would ever say such a thing to me.”

“Reuenthal…” And the pleading note in Yang’s voice was almost too much.

“Don’t worry about it, von Leigh,” he said, cutting back to Yang’s false name to distance them. He looked at Yang, who scuffed the ground again.

“I feel stupid asking, but I have to, because I clearly can’t figure things out unless they’re said to my face. We’re still friends, right?”

“If you want to be.” He didn’t know what he would do if Yang said no.

“Yeah,” Yang said. “I do.”

Relief washed over him. “Good.”

“And you trust me?” Yang asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He sighed. “You should probably tell Mittermeyer that I know.”

“Why would I do that?” Reuenthal asked, frowning. It would be much easier for the three of them if Mittermeyer didn’t know.

“I think it would make his life easier. And I don’t think he would appreciate living in a lie of our construction. He’s honest.”

“You should tell him.”

“What? No.”

“He’s your mentee.”

“You’re the one who—” Yang cut himself off. “You tell him. If he wants to have some kind of talk with me after the fact, that’s his prerogative.”

Reuenthal considered protesting some more, but then decided it wasn’t worth it. He would deal with Mittermeyer. He nodded, then said, “Am I allowed to ask if you’re okay?”

“You’re allowed.”

“Are you?”

Yang sighed. He was less upset than he had been, but this had not been an easy or pleasant talk for either of them. “I don’t know. I wish that— nevermind.”

“What?”

“It’s not something that I can pretend doesn’t exist, so I can’t go back to my blissful ignorance.”

Reuenthal wasn’t sure if he would have called anything about their previous state blissful. “You’re a historian. Isn’t that about wanting to know the truth of things that happen?”

“History is only made up of what gets written down. This sort of thing, you’re not going to be writing it down. People in the future can pretend that it doesn’t exist. But I’m not… I see it with my own eyes. It’s fine.” That wasn’t precisely true, Reuenthal thought. There were, after all, plenty of things that were known to be true that weren’t written down. After all, there was no history book published in the Empire that would admit to Kaiser Kaspar being a homosexual, and yet it was common knowledge, among people who cared to find out such things. That was a kind of history, too, the kind that passed in undertones, from person to person, in glances and unspoken signals, in the way things were said or not said. People could talk without ever speaking directly, as long as both parties already understood what topic was being discussed. 

“I can never mention it again, if you like,” Reuenthal said. Yang could pretend this wasn’t happening, if he wanted to.

“No, that wouldn’t make it better. If Mittermeyer makes you happy, I don’t want you to feel like… you know. I’m fine.” Yang’s shoulders were awkwardly hunched, keeping himself away from Reuenthal.

“How emotionally mature of you.”

Yang laughed. “I don’t think I would call it that. You’re okay, right?”

“Of course.”

“You apparently scared Eisenach earlier.”

“I figured you would talk to him first, if you were going to report me.”

“Why? He likes you, I think. And I think he knows, anyway.”

Reuenthal had assumed Eisenach’s weird comment had been a joke, but apparently not. “I’m that obvious.” He frowned.

“I wouldn’t know. Or maybe he’s talking about something else. I don’t know. He confuses me more than you do.”

“An impressive feat, apparently.”

Yang laughed at that.

* * *

Reuenthal cornered Mittermeyer after dinner. They hadn’t eaten together, but Reuenthal had seen Mittermeyer across the dining hall eating with a group of freshmen, and had caught him when he was on his way out. It was dark and chilly as they left the dining hall together, and they didn’t head back to the dorms, but to the empty, academic part of the campus. They could have a conversation there without being listened to. Mittermeyer was smiling at him. 

He had chosen this slightly more public venue out of deference to Mittermeyer’s nerves. He didn’t want him to feel cornered, as he might in a dorm room. There were wide open avenues of retreat here, though Mittermeyer, in their games, hadn’t favored that as a strategy too much.

“Had time to think your thoughts?” Reuenthal asked. 

“I suppose,” Mittermeyer said. “Though I guess I shouldn’t have expected one night of drunk sleep and a hungover morning to provide that much clarity.”

Reuenthal chuckled. “Some clarity, anyway.”

“Maybe.” 

“And what do you think?”

“I don’t love secrets,” Mittermeyer said, but there was an unspoken second half of that sentence. 

“But you’ll live with them.”

“How do you live with it?” Mittermeyer asked. “I could use some advice, I suppose. What will I do about my family?”

“I’m not sure what your family has to do with it. And as for keeping secrets from my father?” Reuenthal laughed harshly. “My father can think what he likes about me. It doesn’t make a difference.”

“Oh.” Mittermeyer shifted uncomfortably. “Everyone here, then. You aren’t worried about being caught?”

“No. I think we’re both capable of discretion.”

“Yeah.” It was clear that Mittermeyer was uncomfortable with the idea, but he also wasn’t about to change his mind about Reuenthal. He looked handsome, in the warm yellow building lights they were passing under. The light was catching on the flyaways of his hair, and on his square jaw, the shadows giving extra depth to his features, even as the cold wind flushed his face. Reuenthal could have looked at him forever.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Reuenthal said, “you don’t have to worry about Leigh finding out.”

“What?” Mittermeyer startled, looking at Reuenthal. He had been intending to break this news gently, but Mittermeyer was already so tense that this would be impossible.

“He walked in on us, last night,” Reuenthal said. His tone was as casual and even as he could make it. “You were distracted.”

Mittermeyer swore, loudly, and turned away. “Fuck, Reuenthal, what?”

“It’s fine,” Reuenthal said. “I talked to him.”

“And you knew about this? Last night?”

Reuenthal nodded.

“Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

“If I had, what would you have done?”

“Fuck, I don’t know.”

“I didn’t think that you running after Leigh and scaring him would have been good for any of us.” Reuenthal could just picture it, Mittermeyer going to plead with Yang, swearing until he was out of breath that it would never happen again, and he would keep his word, of course, and then that would be it. He would probably never speak to Reuenthal again.

Mittermeyer’s shoulders hunched up. “Maybe not. But you didn’t have to lie to me.”

Reuenthal made a noise that someone could generously interpret as agreement. Mittermeyer slumped further.

“So Leigh knows?” Mittermeyer confirmed.

“Yes.”

“And what did he say?”

“He’s not going to report us,” Reuenthal said.

“How do you know?”

“I trust him.”

“Yeah, okay, Leigh is great, but that doesn’t—“ Mittermeyer broke off and scowled. “He could ruin our lives.”

“And then where would he be?” Reuenthal asked. “He has more to lose than we do.”

“That’s not true,” Mittermeyer said. “Fuck, if my family finds out…”

“They’re not going to find out.”

“What will happen if we get kicked out of school?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“It might!”

“Mittermeyer,” Reuenthal said, which was enough to get him to stop.

“Yeah,” Mittermeyer said. He sighed. “I’ll talk to Leigh.”

“What will you tell him?”

Mittermeyer hesitated. “Does he need me to tell him that it won’t happen again?”

“No,” Reuenthal said. “He doesn’t care.”

There must have been something off in Reuenthal’s voice, because Mittermeyer said, “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Okay.” Mittermeyer ran his hand through his hair. “Okay.” He paused. “Why is he so fine with it?”

“He’s Phezzani,” Reuenthal said. “It’s not illegal there.” Although this was true, it had nothing to do with Yang’s actual reasoning.

“Oh. Right. I forgot.”

Idly, Reuenthal said, “If things don’t work out here, I suppose we could always go there.”

Mittermeyer looked at him. “You know that’s not possible.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t have money,” Mittermeyer said. “And I couldn’t just leave my family.”

The fact that Mittermeyer had given the ridiculous proposal at least a moment of serious thought gratified Reuenthal. “I know,” he said. “Besides, Leigh left Phezzan for a reason, I’d assume.”

Mittermeyer shook his head. “I could never do that.”

“What, leave the Empire?”

“No, come here looking like he does. Foreign. I don’t understand how he can bear it.”

“No one chooses the face they’re born with,” Reuenthal said, half-bitterly, thinking of his own eyes. “None of us can change who we are.”

“Sure,” Mittermeyer said. “But it’s not something that he can even attempt to hide.”

“True.”

“Fuck, Oskar,” Mittermeyer said. “I don’t know if I can bear it. Leigh can just… let everyone hate him.” He shook his head.

“No one will hate you,” Reuenthal said. “They won’t find out.”

“That’s almost worse, isn’t it?” He was frowning at the ground, at the sky, at anything other than Reuenthal. “To have this secret that you should be hated for.”

“Have you ever been hated for anything in your life?” Reuenthal asked.

Mittermeyer let out a half-laugh. “Not that I know of.”

“You get used to it.”

“Yeah.” Mittermeyer looked over at Reuenthal with an expression which verged on pity, which Reuenthal hated. Reuenthal decided that what Mittermeyer needed was a distraction, and so he jerked his head towards an alley between two of the buildings. Mittermeyer followed Reuenthal, hesitantly, and looked around the shadowed space, his eyes glinting in the dim light, reflecting in from a few puddles on the ground. The little route between the buildings was completely deserted, and when Reuenthal pulled Mittermeyer behind the fire escape stairway, they were completely invisible in the darkness. The few building lights didn’t reach that far down the alley, and a cloud had passed across the moon. Their eyes would adjust soon enough, but for the moment, it was hard to see. “What are you doing?” Mittermeyer asked, barely above a whisper.

Reuenthal leaned against the brick wall underneath the metal stairs. “I could ask you the same question.” He had a tiny smirk on his face.

“Oskar…” Mittermeyer said. He took a half step forward, a barely visible silhouette. “I can’t see you at all.”

“Oh? I’m right here.” Reuenthal’s voice was low and flirtatious. His hand brushed Mittermeyer’s arm in the darkness, and Mittermeyer grabbed at it fumblingly, entwining their fingers. 

“We shouldn’t.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Reuenthal said. But even as he said so, Mittermeyer’s other hand was finding his neck, pulling their faces together. Reuenthal didn’t resist at all, and then they were kissing, wrapped in the darkness and safe there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: https://youtu.be/mZlNGPbS-KA
> 
> and that’s all I have written lol. well hopefully 50k words is a nice snack. see you soon
> 
> thank you very much to lydia for the beta read!!


	11. Game Enders

_ November 476 I.C., Odin _

It could not be said that things returned to normal, but despite the delicate shifting of tensions and the new ground that Reuenthal, Mittermeyer, and Yang stood on, life still went on, and routine slipped back over them like a blanket. In public, the three of them tried to keep things as they had been, or at least to keep things discrete. Reuenthal kept his hands off of Mittermeyer (a difficult proposition); Mittermeyer tried not to get flushed and embarrassed when Reuenthal met his eyes; and Yang was clearly guarding any jealousy and tender feelings closely, not letting them out onto his face. Reuenthal caught him looking, though, once or twice, at dinner as he sat next to Mittermeyer. Their eyes would meet, and Yang would look away, back down at his plate.

Although the state that Yang was in was bitter for both of them, it was a delicious bitterness, hot and tangible, for Reuenthal to think that, in some way, he possessed a part of Yang. 

On the next Saturday, when the whole group of friends met back up for their weekly gameplay session, Reuenthal brought the group to order. Bittenfeld, who wanted to get started playing a match against Eisenach, protested, but Wahlen shushed him.

“The other day, Leigh had an idea that I believe is worth serious consideration,” Reuenthal said. “I’d like him to explain it.”

“Er, thanks,” Yang said. He stood at the front of the room, tousling his hair and looking out over the tops of everyone’s heads. “I was thinking, if you’re all willing to try this, that we should change the way that we’re playing.”

“What do you mean?” Wahlen asked.

“We’re not playing for rank,” Yang said. “Just for fun, right? That’s good. That’s fine. I just imagined that, since we’re not constrained by needing to match up with different people every week, and we’re not fighting over rankings, we could try to make our games more realistic.”

Bittenfeld leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. “Realistic to what?” Reuenthal could tell from his expression that he was remembering the heft of the GM rulebook, and hoping that Yang was not about to suggest expanding it.

“Life,” Yang said, gesturing a little absently. “Reuenthal suggested that we play a long term campaign, so that wins and losses mean something. That way we’ll have to take into account the whole scope of the battle: choosing a time and place for the engagement, how many troops and ships we’re going to commit, acceptable losses and acceptable retreats, how we’ll be able to meet back up with a main force… That kind of thing.”

Eisenach was nodding, and Wahlen looked contemplative.

“What kind of long term campaign are we talking about?” Wahlen asked, a bit of a suspicious glance at Yang. During their Saturday games, the group had taken trips into historical settings far more often than they did during SW class itself, since Yang was enamored with history. He could understand Wahlen’s hesitation— it would have grated to run an entire campaign of the Punic wars.

“We’re training to fight only one kind of war, aren’t we?” Reuenthal asked. “We should simulate that one.”

Bittenfeld was grinning. “You know, I like the sound of that. No more playing around with Ancient Earth.”

Yang frowned a little, offended that no one liked history as much as he did, but then said, “So, I think we should split up into teams, and those can be permanent. At least until we decide to change things. And then we’ll be able to do long term strategy.”

“All in favor?” Reuenthal asked. He raised his hand, and then everyone else did as well, looking at Yang, who smiled nervously.

“I want to be on Reuenthal’s team,” Bittenfeld said immediately.

“I’ll GM,” Yang offered. “The whole campaign.”

“You can’t,” Wahlen said.

“What? Why not?”

“Think about it: if Reuenthal heads one team, unless you’re on the other, the opposite side won’t have a chance.”

“The whole point is to improve. You can’t just give up immediately.”

“You know it’s true, though,” Wahlen said.

Reuenthal smirked at Yang, who scowled. “I like to GM.”

Mittermeyer tried to salvage the situation by changing the topic. “We’re going to need more people. I don’t know how effective this will be if we don’t. I mean, we only have six right now. If we have two GMs, that’s just teams of two.”

“You’re not wrong,” Yang said. “Can we find more people we trust? I mean trust, trust.”

Wahlen shrugged. “If we bring in someone we don’t like, we can always just kick them out. I think there’s a few people we can invite, at least.” Reuenthal was mentally running down the list of sophomores and deciding which ones would be too annoying or dangerous to invite, which was most of them. 

“There’s a couple freshmen that I know who might enjoy this,” Mittermeyer said.

“Freshmen,” Bittenfeld said with a disgusted tone. Yang rolled his eyes.

“Eisenach, are there any upperclassmen you would want in?” Yang asked.

Eisenach thought for a moment, then nodded.

“I really would prefer to GM,” Yang said. 

“I don’t know if we’ll find anybody else who will be willing to GM every match and never play,” Mittermeyer pointed out. “Aside from Leigh, anyway. Maybe when matches happen, we should have one representative from each team GM the engagement.”

“Then we have the problem of information leakage,” Reuenthal said. “Each side will have classified info they won’t want the other to access. We still need an impartial moderator in charge of the whole game, and resolving disputes.”

Eisenach raised his hand, then pointed at himself.

“You’ll do it?” Yang asked.

Eisenach nodded.

“That’s probably the best result we’re going to get,” Reuenthal said. “Wahlen’s right that you shouldn’t do it, and if we’re bringing in other students, it’ll look best for our most senior person to run the game. Just to make sure things run smoothly.”

“At least we won’t have to worry about him saying anything secret,” Bittenfeld said with a laugh, which only made Eisenach smile placidly.

“Fine,” Yang muttered. “If there are no objections?” He poured himself some tea from his thermos while he waited to see if anyone would speak up, which no one did. “Then we should probably hash out teams and starting conditions now, before we bring other people in.”

Reuenthal turned on the projector at the front of the room. “Empire versus the rebel fleet, right?” he asked.

“Yes,” Yang said. “We might as well.” His voice was slightly strained, though.

“Does anyone object to me appointing myself supreme commander of the Imperial fleet?” Reuenthal asked.

“That would make Leigh…” Wahlen began.

Mittermeyer glanced over at Yang. “It’s not a great look,” Mittermeyer said.

“It’s fine.” Yang waved his hand to dismiss the objection. “Staden puts me in the rebel fleet role every time it comes up. This is hardly any different. Besides, Reuenthal has his pride to worry about.” Yang smiled, joking.

“So, no objections?” Reuenthal asked.

“Go ahead,” Yang said.

Reuenthal typed this into his computer, and the words displayed on the projector, two neat columns of imperial fleet versus rebel fleet, with his name on one side and Yang’s on the other. Space Fleet Commander, Hank von Leigh. It sent a little shiver down Reuenthal’s spine.

“Wahlen, want to be on my team?” Yang asked.

Wahlen thought for a second, then nodded. “Sure.”

“What rank are you giving him?” Reuenthal asked.

“Admiral.”

Reuenthal wrote ‘Admiral August Samuel Wahlen’ on the board beneath Yang’s name.

“I’ll take Mittermeyer,” Reuenthal said. “If there are no objections.”

“Go ahead,” Yang said again. Reuenthal wished the three of them could have been on the same team, against some powerful enemy, but that didn’t seem fated to be.

“Welcome to the team, High Admiral Mittermeyer.”

“You won’t let me be a Fleet Admiral?” Mittermeyer asked.

“You’ll have to earn your promotion,” Reuenthal said, which caused Mittermeyer to roll his eyes, though he was smiling.

“I said I wanted to be on Reuenthal’s team,” Bittenfeld said.

“I can survive without you, Bittenfeld,” Yang said, which meant that Reuenthal wrote ‘High Admiral Bittenfeld’ on the board beneath Mittermeyer’s name.

“You’ll have first pick from anyone we bring in, then,” Reuenthal said to Yang. “I’m sure you’ll exercise good judgement.”

* * *

_ March 477 I.C., Odin _

The informal club that they had founded expanded in number to about fifteen people, encompassing a few of the top students from each of the four years. It was entertaining, Reuenthal supposed, to enlarge his social circle somewhat, though he doubted that he would ever get as close with some of the new members like Bayerlein or Fahrenheit as he was with the original group, and even moreso, Yang and Mittermeyer.

It was an exciting undercurrent to the school year, their false war. The friendly rivalry that sprung up between all the people they had invited in to join them was obvious to even people who weren’t in on the secret. The fast friendship between Bittenfeld and Wahlen, for example, became slightly strained now that they were on opposite teams, and this was never more obvious than during the Saturday morning physicals, when Bittenfeld didn’t hesitate to yell out some taunts that were incomprehensible to bystanders at Yang and Wahlen as they did their five mile run, and only served to make Whalen laugh and Yang wheeze.

The game started out simple enough, with both fleets contesting each other in the Iserlohn corridor. One of Reuenthal’s favorite parts of playing in the early days was sitting down with Mittermeyer and trying to figure out what a realistic supply chain would be, from the interior of the Empire out to the Iserlohn stationed fleet. Even though they were military students, they didn’t have access to much real information about how fleets truly were supplied, the exact number of ships and people, and what their patrol schedules looked like. They didn’t even have accurate maps of the Iserlohn corridor-- detailed navigational information was one of the most important military secrets-- so they had to do their best to make educated guesses about the material that they were working with. Reuenthal enjoyed coming back through Odin’s newspapers, trying to get estimates of how many ships he would have on hand by figuring out which shipbuilding companies were being awarded contracts, how much titanium was being mined to supply the hulls of the destroyers, and other minutiae. 

This was plenty of excitement at the beginning of the game, especially when Reuenthal tried to counter-analyze what Yang had to work with on his end. Every class where they learned more about some real battle that had happened somewhere, they updated their models of what each side had at their disposal. But once they had settled into what felt like a real configuration of their imaginary fleets, the game ground to a near halt. There was one reason for this: Yang had absolutely no desire to go on the offensive.

“It’s just not realistic,” Yang said one day at dinner. They were eating alone, for once, since Yang had slept through their normal dinner time, and Reuenthal had been studying. The dining hall only had the barest leftovers remaining, but that didn’t bother Yang, who was mindlessly eating his potatoes and chicken, gesturing with his fork in order to make a point. “If it was, we’d be having a new battle of Iserlohn every year, instead of…” He counted. “Four? In all the time that Iserlohn’s existed?”

Reuenthal frowned. “You’d think it would be a nice and tempting target.”

Yang just smiled placidly. “I am capable of self restraint.” He leaned back in his chair. “But it’s not as though you’re invading my side of the corridor.”

“It’s for financial reasons,” Reuenthal said shortly. He wasn’t about to tell Yang if he was going to invade, anyway.

Yang just laughed. “I’ll tell Eisenach to give you permission to ignore any of Kaiser Friedrich’s actual policy positions on how the fleet spends its money. Pretend he’s died and his son takes over tomorrow. Ludwig.”

“You think Prince Ludwig will invade when he takes the throne?” Reuenthal asked, leaning forward.

Yang’s placid expression collapsed, brow furrowing. “Maybe.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He’s young,” Yang pointed out. “He might try to make his mark on history. That’s all I mean.”

“Hm.” Reuenthal “But there’s no one on  _ your _ side who might try to make their own mark?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Yang said. He ate some of his mashed potatoes to avoid talking for a second.

“Come up with someone,” Reuenthal said. “Say there’s a hot blooded and ambitious rebel fleet admiral… ” He pretended to think for a second. “I’m picturing someone who looks just like you, but under a different name. What might he be called?”

Yang immediately flushed and shook his head. “Reuenthal--”

Reuenthal smiled. “Leigh.” He dropped the joke, though.

“I’ll think about it,” Yang said. “I make no promises. But you have me at a disadvantage. Iserlohn is a hard stop.”

“And your fleets stationed just outside the corridor to bat me down as soon as I poke my head through there aren’t?”

“You at least have the luxury of free positioning,” Yang said. His expression changed to something funny and contemplative. “How mad do you think Eisenach would be at me if I requested starting construction on my own fortress?”

“I thought your opinion was that fortresses are bad policy?”

“They are,” Yang said. He was smiling. “But you couldn’t allow me to start building one at the end of the corridor, could you?”

“Perhaps,” Reuenthal said. “But now you’re divulging all your strategy to the enemy.”

Yang just laughed. “I can keep things closer to my chest than Bittenfeld can.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Reuenthal said.

“You keep asking me to make the game more exciting, but I don’t know if you actually want that.”

“Oh, I think I would like to see what you’re truly capable of,” Reuenthal said, which made Yang flush and look away.

And so, for a while, the game proceeded on its normal course, with both sides sizing each other up in the Iserlohn corridor. But then, one Saturday morning during a match where Yang had sent Wahlen into the Iserlohn corridor with a medium sized fleet, facing off against Bayerlein, a freshman who Mittermeyer had invited onto their team, Eisenach paused the game. Everyone in the room, who was watching the match play out and taking notes, received a message on their screens.

GM: At this time, you receive word that Fleet Admiral Leigh has led a force of approximately 40,000 ships into the Phezzan corridor. 

Immediately, the room full of bystanders erupted into chaos, with Yang’s team whooping and laughing and Reuenthal’s team standing from their seats. 

“Is that even, like, allowed?” Bittenfeld asked.

“It’s not like there’s anything physically preventing it,” Wahlen pointed out, looking rather smug.

Mittermeyer looked at Reuenthal. “I’m the only fleet close enough to respond,” Mittermeyer said. But even then, Mittermeyer’s fleet was nowhere near the Phezzan corridor, and might not be able to make it before Yang’s fleets got all the way through into Imperial territory. “Hey, Eisenach, how long will it take for these ships to actually get to Phezzan?”

Eisenach, who never spoke aloud, responded on the computer system.

GM: It will take approximately one week for the force to arrive at Phezzan.

“Oh, you’re just doing that so we don’t have to play on a school day,” Yang said, annoyed. “I told you it actually is only a four day trip from Phezzan to the outside of the corridor.”

GM: you must be out of your mind if you think i’m going to mod a game on a thursday night after i’ve spent all day with staden

GM: The clock advances in the Wahlen-Bayerlein match.

“Fuck,” Bayerlein swore, and ducked back down to his computer terminal, even as everyone else in the room continued to discuss the impending invasion of Phezzan.

Reuenthal looked across the room at Yang, who was smiling placidly, his hands behind his head. When he caught Reuenthal looking, the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. Reuenthal just smiled and shook his head.

After the match was over (Bayerlein lost, mostly due to being very distracted, though both Fleets ended up retreating-- Wahlen’s advance had been a distraction only), Reuenthal cornered Eisenach on the way out of the building.

“Phezzan would put up a defense,” he said.

Eisenach looked at him, then shrugged.

“It has a merchant fleet.”

Eisenach nodded.

“I have some sort of embassy on Phezzan. Can I organize their merchant fleet into a defense from there?”

Eisenach thought for a second, then nodded, slowly.

Reuenthal smiled a cold smile. “I’ll get you the numbers you need to run the game.”

* * *

Getting a list of all the ships operating off of Phezzan was not particularly difficult. All it involved was combing through the past couple years of newspapers and publicly-available port call information, to see what the usual traffic on and off the planet was.

For just being one planet, out of the hundreds that the Empire and Free Planets’ Alliance both had as part of their territories, Phezzan saw a shocking amount of ship traffic. Perhaps that shouldn’t have been surprising, since it was the only route between the two main areas of the galaxy, but Reuenthal had never come up with exact numbers like this before, so he had not quite grasped the scale.

He became sure of one thing: by invading Phezzan, Yang was gambling on winning this war quickly. The entire economy of the FPA was tied inextricably to Phezzani commerce, and if Yang could not stabilize that situation, he was risking sending the entire FPA economy into a tailspin. All Reuenthal had to do was stall for time, and make this war as costly as physically possible, and Yang would be forced to withdraw. He was sure that Yang knew this, which was why Yang had waited until nearly the end of the school year to put this into action. He was playing the game as a game.

Reuenthal couldn’t entirely fault him for that. Yang wouldn’t ever do something like this in the real world, even if (when, Reuenthal thought) he became a fleet admiral for real. But he had asked Yang to make the game more exciting, and Yang had obliged. 

As Reuenthal looked through the manifests of ships on and off Phezzan over the past couple of years, he couldn’t help but remember that Yang had mentioned his father had been a merchant. Reuenthal idly searched the records for “Yang.” There were plenty of Yangs, of course-- it was a common enough name on the other side of the galaxy-- but only a few of them had died in April of a few years past, so Reuenthal was able to narrow down his search quickly.

The newspaper story that came up was short, and delivered in such an acerbic style as to prevent it from being sad. It described an accident that took place in the Phezzan corridor, where a ship with a poorly maintained engine had exploded, causing irreparable damage to the ship itself and killing a good portion of the crew. The survivors included the son of the ship’s captain, Yang Wen-li. 

None of this was truly surprising to Reuenthal. But what was surprising was something else. At the bottom of the informational article, there was a large red banner and a photograph of Yang. It was a ‘Wanted’ ad, with a bounty on Yang’s head. The sum made Reuenthal raise his eyebrows, but he supposed it was only the fraction of a cost of a merchant freighter.

Reuenthal had never had much need to look into Phezzani property law before. He knew that it was different than what it was in the Empire proper (and for all that Phezzan paid lip service to being “part” of the Empire, in order to allow its existence continue, it was a culturally and legally distinct entity), but he hadn’t been aware of just how different. On Odin, if, for example you owed a large sum of money, you would be required to pay it back in various ways: through seizure of property, garnishing of wages, and-- if the debt could be proven in court to have been created through malfeasance rather than bad luck-- the debtor could be sent to prison. This sort of thing rarely happened, Reuenthal understood. If someone wanted satisfaction on an unpayable debt in the Empire, the fastest way to solve it was through a duel. And the only time when debts were transferred between father and son was when the debt was attached to the family name, something that only ever happened with nobility. 

But, on Phezzan, there was no such thing as a debt that was considered “unpayable.” There was always someone who could be held responsible for it, and always some way to get that money back. The laws on Phezzan said that anyone who had benefited from a loan (and benefited was used in a strictly defined legal sense) would need to pay it back, and they could be made to pay it back in a number of unpleasant ways, including a kind of indentured servitude.

Because the ship was part-owned by the Phezzani Mercantile Corporation, and Yang had benefited from that as his father’s son, Yang was responsible for paying back the debt. The wanted ad said that he was required for twenty years of service, in order to pay back the remaining value of the ship, plus interest. But, instead, Yang had vanished without a trace.

It made perfect sense why Yang would change his name and abandon his identity, coming to hide in the Empire. Being hated as a foreigner was better than being a slave.

It was interesting to have this power of knowledge over Yang. It didn’t really change much; Reuenthal could have looked this up any time since learning his real name, which Yang had given to him freely, but it still sat heavily on his mind, the knowledge of the true consequences that would await Yang if Reuenthal ever decided to turn him in. He tucked the information away, savoring the strange feeling.

What was more pressing was the need to organize a defense of Phezzan. He texted Mittermeyer.

Reuenthal: Do you have time to talk about our plans for the game next weekend? I’ve come up with some preliminary thoughts.

Mittermeyer: sure

Mittermeyer: you can come over. I’m just at the commissary

Reuenthal gathered his research, and made his way across the quad to the freshman dorms. He knocked on Mittermeyer’s door, and received no answer. Not wanting to stand around and wait for him to return, Reuenthal glanced up and down the hallway, then pulled a paperclip from his bag, and picked open the simple lock on Mittermeyer’s door. He let himself in, then sat down at Mittermeyer’s desk. 

He rifled through the neat stack of half-completed engineering homework that Mittermeyer had left out, more out of idle curiosity than anything. 

He heard Mittermeyer’s footsteps in the hall a minute or so later, and then the key turning in the lock. The door swung open, and Mittermeyer jumped, surprised to see Reuenthal there. The surprise melted away into a pleased smile after a fraction of an instant, though.

“Did I leave it unlocked?” he asked as he closed the door behind himself.

Reuenthal held up his bent paperclip.

“I keep forgetting you can do that,” Mittermeyer said. He dropped his bag on the floor and went to lay on his bed, propping his head up on his elbow so that he could look at Reuenthal. “It’s almost not fair, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can come in here any time you like, but I couldn’t do the same to you.”

“It’s not particularly difficult. You could learn.”

Mittermeyer held out his hand, but when Reuenthal went to drop the paperclip into it, Mittermeyer grabbed his wrist. “I think you have a more careful touch than I do,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Mittermeyer said. He hooked his fingers in Reuenthal’s. Mittermeyer’s hands were stout and heavy, Reuenthal’s were long. “My mother is a music teacher,” Mittermeyer said. “She had me try to learn about ten different instruments, and it turned out I wasn’t any good at any of them.”

“I find it hard to picture you playing the flute.”

Mittermeyer grinned and dropped Reuenthal’s hand. “The number of hours I put into piano, and got nowhere with it…” He shook his head. “Anyway, I don’t think I would be able to do it.”

Reuenthal pulled his keychain out from his pocket and began pulling his room key off its ring. Mittermeyer watched him curiously. He held the key out to him.

“What?” Mittermeyer asked.

“Now we’ll be even,” Reuenthal said. “Take it.”

Mittermeyer did, though his expression was strange. “How will you get into your room?”

“The same way I get into yours.” Reuenthal said.

Mittermeyer laughed. “Do you really want me to have this?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll make you a copy. You shouldn’t have to break open the locks in the places where you live.”

He was tempted to tell Mittermeyer that that was where he had learned it in the first place, but he just smiled. “As you say.”

Mittermeyer looked at him with a warm expression, and hooked the key onto his own keyring. “So,” he said. “What did you want to do about Leigh?”

“We need to make his fight in the corridor as miserable as possible,” Reuenthal said. “Eiesenach told me that I could organize some kind of Phezzani merchant fleet defense, but that will only be able to hold out for so long. After that, you’ll be in position to at least block the corridor. You might have time to set up a minefield.”

“I like that thought.”

* * *

The next Saturday rolled around. The tension of their game had felt like a low pressure front rolling through the sophomore class, making even friendly conversations between Yang and Reuenthal charged with an undercurrent of excitement. This competition was something new, for the both of them. Yang was stepping out of his comfort zone, and Reuenthal wondered if that would be the thing that finally allowed him to take victory over Yang.

Yang clearly didn’t think this was a winnable war, or he would have put this plan into action immediately, but it would be interesting to see just how he played it out.

The whole group trooped in to the practice room. On normal Saturdays, there would usually be some joviality-- people joking about placing bets on whatever the upcoming matches were, but this time, everyone was nearly dead silent, eyes flicking between Yang, Reuenthal, and Mittermeyer. They had all come prepared.

“How does it feel to lead an invasion?” Reuenthal asked Yang.

“I don’t know,” Yang said. “Eisenach tells me you’re playing as the Phezzani merchant fleet today.”

“I am.”

“How does it feel for you to get to play the ragtag straggler band, for once?”

“I look forward to the challenge,” Reuenthal said with a smile.

“Gonna shake hands and get started?” Bittenfeld asked. “I want to see this happen.”

They shook. Yang’s hand was soft, but he smiled at Reuenthal. “Let’s go.”

“Good luck,” Reuenthal said.

Yang just shook his head and went to sit down at his computer.

GM: Are you ready to begin the game?

Reuenthal: Yes.

Yang: Yes.

Eisenach began the game, giving Reuenthal access to all the resources he could muster for Phezzan’s defense. It wasn’t much. He knew exactly where Yang was in the corridor, at least, because he was receiving reports from the merchant ships that saw them coming, a dire warning about this force rushing through the corridor.

Reuenthal knew that Yang would want to actually take Phezzan. He needed the planet to be fully under his control, or he risked having his escape route back home cut off. Additionally, there were resources on the planet, such as the navigational information that was tightly held by the Phezzani government, that was very valuable and would make his trip through the corridor much easier.

So, the first thing Reuenthal did was order all of the navigational information held on Phezzan to be completely wiped. He sent enough of it up to his small fleet of merchant ships that they would be able to move through the corridor, but the rest of it he destroyed. This would pose more and more of a problem for Yang as the length of the battle wore on, because the routes shifted subtly over time. He certainly had enough navigational information to get all his ships to Phezzan, but getting from Phezzan to the Empire would be much, much more difficult. Especially if Mittermeyer, driving his fleet as fast as he physically could, was laying minefields out at the other end of the corridor. Reuenthal’s duty was to slow Yang’s approach as much as he could, so that Mittermeyer would have time for this task, and so that Yang’s approach would lead him directly into these mines.

The second thing that Reuenthal did was weaponize his merchant navy as much as he could. The merchant ships all had minor defensive capabilities, mostly to fend off any pirates that might try to attack them, but nothing that would stand up to a rebel fleet battleship. The main value of many of the merchant ships was in their sheer tonnage. Some of the largest freighters absolutely dwarfed military ships. They were not particularly maneuverable, and they were slow, but their engines were protected from damage by the great bulk of cargo holds that engulfed them completely, and so the slashes of laser fire had no chance of penetrating to the engine and disabling the ship. These would be his battering rams. 

He had nowhere near enough of them to cause damage to the full fleet-- he was against forty thousand ships and he had perhaps five thousand at his disposal, but he hoped that they would be enough for him to create some chaos, enough to enact his more destructive plans.

Reuenthal had to wonder what Yang would do, if their positions were reversed. Probably not what he was intending.

Yang’s ships crept closer and closer through the Phezzan corridor. Reuenthal wanted to have the battle as close to the planet as he could. In close quarters, with a smaller area to defend, his ships would be more effective than they would be spread out across a far larger battlefield. Although he hated the sensation of giving up ground, letting Yang waltz through the corridor unopposed, it gave him more time to prepare.

The Phezzan space elevator was one of the few in the galaxy. Fiendishly expensive and difficult to construct, it was Phezzan’s crown jewel, a glittering spire that lofted out from the equator to an anchor in the sky. That anchor was a captive moon, small as far as moons went, but far larger than any ship, and it was tied to Phezzan itself by long, frighteningly thin lengths of cable, each one capable of carrying cargo and passengers up and down from orbit. Long ago, ancient engines had been used to painstakingly push this moon into position. Those engines remained on the moon, occasionally needed to maintain its position in orbit, especially in the event of meteor strikes. 

Yang’s fleet crept closer and closer.

Reuenthal’s duty here was not to win, he tried to remind himself. His real commander token was elsewhere, rushing to reinforce Mittermeyer at the exit to the corridor, though he wouldn’t get there anywhere in time for the start of the battle. All Reuenthal had to do here was not allow Yang to make it through unscathed.

“What was it you said, Leigh?” Reuenthal asked aloud as he typed his last few commands before Yang’s ships came in range. “No invading army should have the right to kill and plunder?”

Yang didn’t respond, but Wahlen said, “No talking.”

Reuenthal just shook his head.

Yang’s ships swept in towards the planet. Only a small portion of his force, some ten-thousand odd ships, was intending to come close to Phezzan. The rest wanted to move through the corridor as quickly as possible. It made strategic sense; Yang must have known that Reuenthal couldn’t put up too much of a fight. Reuenthal wanted to let him continue to have that impression. 

He focused on the ships that were coming down, throwing his merchant fleet battering rams at them, trying to scare them into dead angles so that they ended up not sticking their landings, scraping their bellies on Phezzan’s thick atmosphere, their unshielded sides scorching, some of them tumbling down into Phezzan’s oceans. He tried to break up their formations, tried to steer them away from the major population centers.

Reuenthal’s attacks were fairly successful, but they were just intended to buy time. He knew it was futile to hold the planet, and further resistance would be in ground level skirmishes that probably wouldn’t be worth simulating. But all he wanted to do was hold out just enough that--

And there, the huge remainder of Yang’s fleet had finally crossed into the perfect position, moving between Phezzan and its star. Reuenthal gave the one command that he had been saving, holding in check, telling the engines on Phezzan’s tethered moon to engage at their full power, cutting the cables of the space elevator.

The huge moon flew out, its heavy engine able to push it faster than light for just a brief distance-- but that was enough. Usually, faster than light navigation was discouraged this close to a star because the navigational pathways became confused, the entrances and exits not always clear, the math difficult, and their sensing of acceptable routes muddled. But with such a large object, Reuenthal didn’t need precision. 

The moon was probably sixty kilometers in diameter, and with Yang’s fleet all headed in the same direction, it was impossible for them to get out of its way fast enough. But even still, it wasn’t the moon itself that did the most damage; it was the long cables, impossibly thin, impossibly strong, impossibly long, whipping out like knife blades through space, cleaving ships in twain as they swirled around the bulk of the moon.

The rear line of Yang’s fleet was thrown into complete chaos. It was a devastating blow.

But it had cost Reuenthal, and Phezzan, dearly. Even as he watched Yang tuck tail and run through the corridor towards the Empire, the rest of his merchant navy was being stomped into nothing by Yang’s detached force. He even bothered to capture a few ships without completely destroying them, so that he could harvest their navigational information and pass it along to his main fleet, and Reuenthal cursed himself for forgetting to order all his ships to self-destruct in case of such an event. It was too late now.

Phezzan had fallen, and Yang was pushing on through the corridor. 

Eisenach called for a break, at that point. This part of the match had taken several hours, and Reuenthal stood from his chair with a stiffness in his limbs that came from holding the tension of the fake battle in his body. He made a deliberate effort to relax as he caught Mittermeyer’s eye.

“You ready to take your turn?” he asked.

“Of course,” Mittermeyer said. “The question is, if Leigh is ready for me?”

Yang, who was rubbing his eyes and fishing around in his bag for something-- a bottle of aspirin was what he pulled out-- blinked. “Hm? Oh. Yeah.” 

“If you’re tired from just Phezzan, I’m not sure how you’re going to survive a whole campaign.” Reuenthal nodded to the door, and Yang followed him. “You coming?” Reuenthal asked Mittermeyer.

“I want to get set up,” Mittermeyer replied. Reuenthal nodded, and so he and Yang headed outside together. They stood and stretched in the warm spring afternoon, birds chirping overhead. It was a relief to get out of the practice room and away from the glare of the computer screens. He was glad that he didn’t have to spend another few hours simulating whatever battle Yang was about to have with Mittermeyer.

Yang complained, “I hate that you’ve pushed me to be less lazy.” There wasn’t any malice in his tone, and he was just staring up at the bright blue sky, running his hand through his messed up hair.

“I thought you would be more creative,” Reuenthal said.

“Are you disappointed in me?”

“No,” Reuenthal said. “You won.”

Yang made a dismissive sound, half a laugh. “Necessity is the mother of invention,” he said. “When the tool that I have at my disposal is forty thousand ships, the strategy I’m going to use has to be one that forty thousand ships can execute. Sometimes that just means flying in a straight line.” He smiled. “If you have less to work with, you have a lot more freedom.”

“I tried to think about what you would do, if you were in my place,” Reuenthal said. “But I was sure that would mean you would be able to counter anything I pulled out.”

“I liked your idea with the elevator,” Yang said. “I didn’t know if you would be willing to mess with it, because I decided that I would want it to remain functional-- annoying that it isn’t-- and I thought the risk of causing huge destruction to the planet with those cables was too much.”

“I did some damage, though.”

Yang smiled. “You did. I did figure you would try to attack my rear-- I just wasn’t sure how you would go about doing that. Maybe have a reserve force of ships hiding somewhere. I didn’t know what number you had at your disposal.”

“I figured you, of all people, would be familiar with how many ships Phezzan has.” 

Yang looked away and changed the subject. “I hope you’re not disappointed that you couldn’t hold the planet.”

“We’re not simulating an insurgent war on the surface of Phezzan. But you should go ahead and assume that one is happening. I wouldn’t give up, if that was my actual goal. But I just needed to slow you down, and I did.”

Yang smiled. “You’ll probably win the war.”

“No, the school year will end before things come to a conclusive head.”

Yang laughed. “Caught me.”

“I’ll try to beat you before then,” Reuenthal said. “For both our satisfactions.”

“I hope you do.” Yang let out a heavy rush of breath. “I’m not actually looking forward to dealing with Mittermeyer in there.”

“No? You don’t think it will be entertaining?”

Yang gave him a sideways glance. “Let’s not discuss it.”

“Alright.”

They stood out on the grass for a few minutes more, just enjoying the break, but then Wahlen came out and told Yang that Eisenach was waiting on him to start the next round of the game, so they trooped back inside.

“Good luck,” Reuenthal said to Mittermeyer as they all sat back down.

“Thanks,” Mittermeyer said. “It’s only going to be, what, a ten thousand to forty thousand battle?”

“Thirty something. He left a force at Phezzan, and I took out some.”

“I know,” Mittermeyer said. “I was exaggerating.”

Reuenthal smiled. “There have been worse battles.”

“True.”

But it was clear as soon as the battle began that Mittermeyer was not going to win.

Against someone other than Yang, Mittermeyer’s feints in positioning, designed to lead Yang’s ships into his minefields, might have caused enough confusion to deal real damage, but Yang decided that he had enough of a force to only send out small, maneuverable groups at a time, poking at Mittermeyer, wearing him down, all the while mapping out the areas that Mittermeyer was carefully avoiding with his own ships. As Mittermeyer grew more desperate, and Yang grew surer of the territory, he began pushing in with more and more of his ships, using minesweeping drones to clear paths, and forcing Mitttermeyer back and back and back.

Yang’s fleet could swarm Mittermeyer’s ships, and because of the necessities of navigating the battlefield carefully, could easily pinch off sections of Mittermeyer’s main fleet, envelop them, and destroy them, sometimes even by forcing them back onto their own laid minefields.

Reuenthal watched Mittermeyer’s face. He was sweating and grim, his hands dancing over the keyboard as he delivered orders as quickly as he could type them out. There was a glint in his eye, one of the few times that he looked up at Reuenthal, that communicated that he knew he was going to lose, but he was doing his damndest to make it count.

The longer the battle stretched on, the more worn down Yang seemed. He wasn’t taking any joy in delivering his commands, and every time he pinched off and destroyed another one of Mittermeyer’s major fleet sections, he winced while delivering his commands. It was funny-- despite how much it was unfair for Staden to constantly put Yang in the position of the underdog, Reuenthal thought it was a position that Yang enjoyed occupying, on some fundamental level. Being the aggressor, even if he was willing to do it in the game, didn’t seem to suit him. It didn’t suit Mittermeyer and Reuenthal to be on the defensive, but next week when Reuenthal’s main fleet arrived to put a stop to this, it would be more even, and more fun for them all.

As Mittermeyer’s fleet was whittled away to almost nothing, maybe a few hundred ships remaining in total, Reuenthal knew he had one final trick up his sleeve, the one thing they had discussed. He had managed to draw Yang’s fleet deep, deep into his minefield. Yang probably saw the path to the exit, and the one thing that was in the way was Mittermeyer himself. But his fleet was large, pressed up close to these mine-lined corridors of safety, carved out either by Mittermeyer intentionally, or by the odd careening ship that had accidentally cleared a path through its own destruction.

Mittermeyer gave one final command, broadcasting it out to all the positioning engines on the mines themselves. They began moving in, not exactly targeting anything, but moving. Visible, now that they had engaged their engines, they were easy to shoot down, but there were so many of them that a good chunk made it through, further fraying the edges of Yang’s fleet, but obliterating Mittermeyer’s from the map completely.

Mittermeyer sighed and leaned back in his seat. “I’m dead,” he said. “There goes my command token.” He pointed at his screen, flicking it as Eisenach removed his little picture from the map. “You got me, Leigh.”

“Sorry,” Yang said. “I tried to let you retreat.”

“You knew I wouldn’t,” Mittermeyer said. “It’s life and death for me to stop you here as much as possible.” Mittermeyer’s voice was rough with something. Annoyance at himself for losing an unwinnable fight, maybe.

Yang shook his head, then looked at Eisenach. “Is he out of the game?” he asked. “Or can he just be given a new commander token.”

“His whole fleet was destroyed,” Wahlen pointed out. “Not sure what ships he’d be given to command.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mittermeyer said, though it clearly did. He stood and stretched. “Good game, Leigh.”

“Yeah,” Yang said. He offered his hand to Mittermeyer. “Good game. You made me pay for every inch.”

That did make Mittermeyer smile a little, and he took Yang’s offered hand. “Yeah, I did.”

* * *

_April 477 I.C., Odin_

After the initial excitement of Yang’s invasion through Phezzan, things calmed down a little bit. Localized, smaller conflicts as Yang sought to seize planets en route to Odin and protect his own supply line were more interesting and easier to handle, because as Yang delegated these tasks to his subordinates, there was an opportunity for him to actually lose. Bit by bit, Yang’s invading fleet was being knocked down, and he was having trouble getting enough ships through the Phezzan corridor to reinforce himself.

Reuenthal was half tempted to take this as an opportunity to invade through Iserlohn, but he thought that would just lead to Yang rushing Odin and possibly winning the game, so he refrained. 

All of this made the real SW class pale in comparison, even when Reuenthal did get to go up against one of the other members of their little club. It always felt hollow, the falseness and cracks of the tiny SW engagements showing far more, now that he had something more involved to compare it to. 

One day after SW class, Reuenthal found Yang laying outside on the grass, both of them having finished their respective games early. Reuenthal sat down next to him. Without cracking open his eyes, Yang asked, “Did Staden ask to see you?”

“What?”

Without saying anything, Yang passed Reuenthal his phone, on which was a string of text messages from a concerned Eisenach, reporting that Staden had been asking about their games. 

“And Staden wants to see me at four,” Yang said.

“That’s in ten minutes. Do you want me to go with you?”

“Thanks for the offer, but if there’s some sort of fall to be taken, I think that it’s less injurious for us all if I simply take it.”

Reuenthal frowned. “You don’t need to be the martyr of the sophomore class.”

Yang didn’t sound very concerned. “I’m not trying to be. I’m just saying that it’s probably the cleanest thing to do. Staden already doesn’t like me.”

“Good luck, then.”

“I think the worst I’ll get is yelled at. Dinner later?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll let you know how this goes. Don’t bother waiting for me, since I have no idea how long this will take.” With a yawn, Yang sat up. He gathered his belongings, gave Reuenthal a tight smile, and headed back into the building.

Reuenthal watched him go, then headed back to his dorm.

He found Yang at dinner, as usual, though since it was a Friday night, most of the rest of their group had skived off to Joseph’s bar. It was only Yang, Mittermeyer, and Reuenthal who were actually sitting down to eat. Mittermeyer had suggested heading to the bar also, but Yang had declined, saying that they needed to talk, and Joseph’s wasn’t the best setting. This was alarming, but when they met up at dinner, Yang didn’t look too distressed.

“How was your meeting with Staden?” Reuenthal asked as he sparingly buttered a dinner roll.

“Oh, yeah, Eisenach told me that Staden was getting curious about us,” Mittermeyer said. “I didn’t know you had talked to him.”

Yang looked around the room, and judged that they were far enough away from everyone else that he could speak quietly without being overheard. “It basically came down to him thinking we’re all too smart for our own good.”

“I believe I was already aware that he thought that of you,” Reuenthal said, voice dry. “He’s only been trying to knock you down a peg once a week for the past two years.”

Yang let out a dry laugh. “Yeah. Maybe.” He shook his head, seemingly at a loss for words. “He told me that our logs about Iserlohn are too realistic. It looks like we somehow have access to actual classified military information.”

“Since all we’re doing is extrapolating from publicly available information, that just means that everyone in the fleet has a terrible information leak on their hands,” Reuenthal said. 

“I basically told him that.”

“So, what, are we in trouble?” Mittermeyer asked. His face twitched as he remembered something. “My dad will kill me if I get any demerits from this.”

“Why would your father even know how many demerits you get?” Reuenthal asked.

“He makes me show him-- nevermind, it’s not important.”

“I don’t think we’re in trouble, anyway,” Yang said. “He just wants to monitor us.”

Reuenthal scowled. “The whole idea was that we would be able to play without Staden breathing down our necks.”

“He said he didn’t want to try to influence the direction of the game-- he just wanted to see what kind of data we were using, and what strategies we were coming up with.”

“Why?” Mitttermeyer asked. “Didn’t you tell him it really was just a game?”

“Yeah, and I told him that it was to help you study.” He pointed his fork at Mittermeyer. “But he didn’t really believe that at all.”

“It’s true!”

“He said you didn’t need the practice.”

“He’s not wrong,” Reuenthal said. “But I don’t think that we’re really doing anything that innovative. If anything, Eisenach lets us get away with things that wouldn’t be possible in real life. I’ve been half thinking over the physics of my elevator trick-- I think Eiesenach should have double checked my math more closely.”

“I don’t know,” Yang said. “He asked me my opinion on Phezzan, in the real world.”

“And what did you tell him?” Mittermeyer asked.

“That it’s only slightly less stupid to invade through there than it is to throw yourself at Iserlohn over and over,” Yang said. “Basically.” He shrugged.

“Why was he asking your opinion?”

“Maybe he likes me now?” Yang said. “He at least didn’t seem like he was going to punish us at all for this, or report it to anyone. Maybe he likes a secret as much as we do.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah.” Yang poked around with his fork. “I don’t know. He seemed weirdly okay with it, once I explained what was actually going on.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I don’t like the feeling of Staden being okay with me. It’s not natural.”

Mittermeyer laughed. “You should take the wins you can get,” he said. “Maybe you can be number one, if Staden isn’t constantly trying to tear you down.”

Yang glanced at Reuenthal. “No, I doubt it,” Yang said. “Besides, I don’t care about being number one.”

“You’ve gotten too used to playing the underdog,” Reunthal said. “I think if Staden stops putting you at a disadvantage all the time, you won’t actually know what to do with yourself.”

“Oh, maybe. That’s probably why my campaign is going so badly right now.”

“No,” Mittermeyer said. “That’s going badly because your supply line is too long.”

“It’s an unwinnable position you’re in,” Reuenthal said. “All you’re trying to do is run down the clock until the end of the year, so that it can end before we fully repel you.”

“And so what if I am?”

“I’ll tell Eisenach that we want to pick up this campaign where we left off, next school year.”

Yang scowled. “Oh, come on. I want it to end so that I can GM. Eisenach deserves a chance to play himself.”

“It wouldn’t be nearly as fun without you,” Mittermeyer said.

“I can’t believe you said that after what happened in the corridor.”

“The corridor notwithstanding,” Mittermeyer said. “It’s true that things are much less fun, now that I’m dead.”

“Eisenach says that I can assign you a new fleet after a couple weeks,” Reuenthal said. 

“I can’t believe I’m the first real casualty,” Mittermeyer said.

“I should have given you the opportunity to surrender,” Yang said. “I probably would have if I had been able to get you surrounded. I would have given you the chance to join my side.”

“Oh, that would be cruel,” Reunthal said. He looked over at Mittermeyer. “Would you have taken him up on that offer? Become a rebel fleet admiral?”

Mittermeyer looked between Yang and Reuenthal, obvious conflict on his face, then just laughed. “I don’t think Eisenach would have let me switch sides like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while since I posted one of these lol. i figured that in order to make TWS worth actually reading, instead of just reading SiT again, I should include some new material. I think I need to go back and change like one or two paragraphs of continuity in SiT about Eisenach controlling the Phezzan defense, but that's nbd
> 
> this is what happens when you slightly retcon your previous work in order to make an untold half of the narrative more interesting
> 
> I hope it's interesting, anyway haha. I feel like this story is a totally different mindset than like everything else that I've been working on, or at least this chapter is. so idk how well i did with it. >.>
> 
> anyway, I want to get this story finished so it can stop haunting me.
> 
> title is an obvious reference to ender's game, because [sigh] ender's game is obviously a huge influence, and i couldn't think of any more interesting title. obligatory 'the author is a huge dick' caveat on that one.
> 
> unbeta'd because this story is a gift for one of my beta readers and I'm not going to make em do work for it, and the other one is asleep rn and I just feel like Posting lol. so that's where we're at with the writing life today. as usual, I'm on twitter as @natsinator and on tumblr as @javert. all my links are @ gayspaceopera.carrd.co


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